by Nichole Van
That feeling lingered with Fossi the next morning when she met Mrs. Evans-Clark, the housekeeper, for a tour of Whitmoor House. Daniel and Lord Linwood had risen early to enjoy a bruising ride. Jasmine was not feeling well and the children had stumbled off to the stables to inspect a new litter of puppies, which left Fossi to Mrs. Evans-Clark’s care to orient her to the house.
Fortunately, the lady in question had bonhomie to spare.
“I trust you had a delightful rest, Miss Lovejoy?” she beamed as Fossi joined her in the medieval great hall.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Excellent, excellent. I always want guests here to feel like this home is theirs, too.” Rosy-cheeked and dumpling-round, Mrs. Evans-Clark was cheer personified in her bustling dress and floppy mobcap.
“I am hardly a guest, Mrs. Evans-Clark. Merely a hired employee—”
“No, no. That I do not believe. His lordship said you were to be treated like a guest and so I shall.”
Fossi stomped on the thrill of delight that washed through her at those words. Daniel had thought about her? Enough to mention it to Mrs. Evans-Clark?
A friend. He’s a friend.
“Come, then,” Mrs. Evans-Clark said. “We’ll have you laughing and enjoying yourself in no time. His lordship said you were to have run of the library for your work. Let us start there, shall we?”
Mrs. Evans-Clark kept up a steady stream of commentary as they went. Which truly was a blessing, as Fossi couldn’t control the depth of her interest about Daniel’s house and surely would have embarrassed herself. Mrs. Evans-Clark did an admirable job of anticipating every possible question.
“His lordship loves this library something fierce,” Mrs. Evans-Clark said as she stirred the fire, waving a hand to encompass the dark bookshelves lining the walls and table in the center of the room. “I believe he’s read every book here. I find the Tudor wainscoting quite dark myself, but his lordship thinks it cozy.”
Surveying the room, Fossi had to agree with Daniel. The age-darkened wood did lend the room an air of warmth and comfort.
Of course, Mrs. Evans-Clark’s opinions did not stop at the library.
“As you can see, the former owners of the house were quite dedicated to using weaponry in their decorating.” Mrs. Evans-Clark said as they passed a series of lances, pikes and claymores while climbing the wide central stairs.
About the blue drawing room overlooking the drive, she commented, “His lordship was most insistent we keep the original dark paneling and mullioned windows. He says they give the room personality. Can you imagine? A room with personality?”
It didn’t take too long for Fossi to see Whitmoor House as an analogy of the man himself—hodgepodge construction, the clever side door, the hidden treasures. Forbidding on the exterior but once you knew the secret mechanism to get inside, it was light and color and unexpected beauty.
Mrs. Evans-Clark obviously adored her employer.
“He’s a good man, he is, Lord Whitmoor. Kind and fair. You could not ask for more in a master, I say.”
Daniel’s hand was everywhere in the house, and Mrs. Evans-Clark delighted in pointing it out.
“His lordship insisted on placing the desk there, as it affords a view to the watchtower when the leaves have gone from the trees.”
“His lordship made me promise to never change the color of the drapes in the dining room.”
Telling, however, was a complete lack of anything related to Lady Alice.
No paintings of her. No embroidered pillows. Nothing.
If Fossi didn’t already know, she would assume the man had never been married.
Finally, Fossi couldn’t contain her curiosity.
“Did Lady Alice, his lordship’s late wife, approve of his decisions regarding decoration?”
The jovial Mrs. Evans-Clark instantly turned prune-mouthed, eyes shuttering.
Fossi took a step back at the abrupt transformation.
“Lady Alice did not spend much time here. She couldn’t abide this house. Called it doom and gloom.” Mrs. Evans-Clark waved away the question, as if the presence of a mistress of the house were unimportant.
Oh.
“I wonder why Lord Whitmoor did not build her something more suited to her taste then?” It seemed logical. The man who cried over a box would certainly have spent some of his riches on a home for his beloved wife.
Mrs. Evans-Clark snorted. “I cannot say that his lordship cared one way or another what Lady Alice thought.”
Well.
Well, well.
That was . . . unanticipated.
“Indeed.” Fossi leaned forward. It was a pose she knew from past experience invited the listener to share a confidence. “I was under the impression that Lord Whitmoor was quite attached to his late wife. In fact, I am quite surprised not to have seen a portrait of her—
“Attached to her? Why on earth would his lordship keep a portrait of that woman?” Mrs. Evans-Clark looked well-incensed. “After everything she did?”
Fossi’s face surely communicated her surprise. “But she was his wife, correct?”
Another snort. “That woman was never any sort of real wife to his lordship. Refusing to live under the same roof as him. Consorting with other men . . . no, it was deliverance when she ran off to Spain with that Mr. Terrance.”
Gracious heavens!
“We all made a cheerful bonfire of her effects when she finally, truly left. Good riddance, I say.” Here Mrs. Evans-Clark crossed herself. “Far be it from me to wish ill upon the dead, but suffice it to say, not a soul shed a tear when word reached us that Lady Alice had died. The Lord’s justice will be served in the end, I say.”
Fossi passed the rest of the tour in a haze of confusion. Follow-up questions flitted through her brain with startling force.
Had Daniel loved his wife then? Just because Mrs. Evans-Clark disliked the woman, it did not necessarily follow that Daniel did, too. Many a man had continued to love a less-than-worthy spouse.
Fossi could see Daniel possessing that sort of devotion.
Granted, the thought of the affections of his enormous heart being bestowed so undeservedly . . .
Fossi had to blink-blink the emotion back down her raw throat.
Was this what had driven him to withdraw behind fortress walls?
Goodness how unfair life could be. If Fossi had the love of such a man, she would cherish and adore him—
She stopped her thoughts right there before they spilled over into sentiment that would make her weep for days.
And so she listened as Mrs. Evans-Clark moved on to talk about the dual aspect of the long gallery, the excellent sound of the pianoforte and Lord Whitmoor’s changes to the view over the north lawn.
It was only as they were passing along the corridor back to the central stairs, that Fossi realized they had skipped a room. Nestled into one corner with an impressive double-door entrance, it had to have spectacular views down to the river.
Fossi paused, motioning toward the closed doors.
“What is in that room, Mrs. Evans-Clark?”
The housekeeper paused, brows furrowing.
“It is nothing you need concern yourself about, Miss Lovejoy,” she said after a moment. “It’s just a room that his lordship keeps locked for himself.”
“How . . . singular.”
“Even I don’t have a key for it,” Mrs. Evans-Clark said. “His lordship always tends to the room on his own when he is here.”
Mrs. Evans-Clark moved on, but Fossi remained rooted in place, staring at the barred doors.
A locked room?
It felt a little as if Fate had said, I see your mysterious little box, and I raise you a sealed room. Trump that, if you can.
“Come now.” Mrs. Evans-Clark’s voice at her elbow startled her. The woman had returned to fetch her. “Let’s get you settled in the library with a nice pot of tea and some scones, shall we?”
Fossi nodded, though she was quite sure she
would be unable to focus on sums for the rest of the day.
Lady Alice had not been worthy of Daniel’s affections.
Daniel had purged his house of every trace of his dead wife but kept a mysterious box and a locked room.
Would the room also be full of stones and twine and the occasional feather?
And just when she thought she understood this man, she found herself literally back at the beginning.
It was too fitting for a spy master—the man who was his own personal labyrinth.
Whitmoored, indeed.
She had considered his fortress a monolith—a single, hollow tower. But that was simply not the case. He truly was a maze with unexpected twists and turns.
Who knew when one reached the center? What would one find there?
Such thoughts plagued her, pushing aside her efforts to reconcile g and m with c and the other odd variables in Daniel’s equations.
After several hours of ineffectual work, Fossi found herself prowling the confines of his library, studying the most worn volumes, those with cracked spines. She imagined him opening them time and again to read . . . Sonnets by William Shakespeare, Robinson Crusoe, The Iliad, Ivanhoe . . .
Tales of romance and adventure.
She could see their fascination for him. How reading others’ exploits would spur and inspire his own.
She pulled down the slim book of sonnets.
The pages fell open, revealing a pressed lily marking a passage—Sonnet 50.
The words slipped from the page.
How heavy do I journey on the way
When what I seek (my weary travel’s end) . . .
A sonnet of sorrow and pain. Of never-ending grief.
For that same groan doth put this in my mind:
My grief lies onward and my joy behind.
Oh, Daniel.
The words caused her throat to ache and next she knew, Fossi found herself sitting on the floor, palms pressed to her eyes, choking back tears.
Because . . .
Because—
She felt his pain. Breathed it. Lived it.
An echo of her own loss.
Of a mother gone and a happiness that would never be recovered.
Fosse.
Wouldst that it had been.
She understood that type of grief . . . where only darkness lay along the path ahead—
Kindred soul meeting kindred soul.
And in that moment . . . she knew.
Against her better judgment, against her own mental warnings . . .
She loved him.
Daniel Ashton.
Hopelessly. Irrevocably.
It had been entirely too predictable, really.
Her circle of acquaintance was so small and the magnetism of his personality too great—
Naturally, she would be drawn to him, a moth to flame. Complicit in her own fiery demise.
In fact, the thought of throwing herself upon the pyre of her love . . . sacrificing herself in one glorious blaze of color as a monument to him . . .
It had a certain maudlin appeal.
Particularly if it eased his anguish in any way.
But she doubted even a sacrifice of her entire soul would abate the grief he kept locked deep inside.
Fossi woke the following day, concerned that her newfound understanding and adoration of Daniel would shine from every pore, revealing her inner emotional state at the slightest glance.
She dreaded and yet longed to see him with equally fierce hope.
But the man made no appearance.
“His lordship is off helping a tenant farmer roof his cottage,” was Mrs. Evans-Clark’s explanation when Fossi inquired as to his whereabouts.
“Meeting with his land steward,” was the next day’s excuse.
“Off to Gloucester on business with his solicitor,” was the reason the day after that.
On the fourth day, Fossi suspected Daniel was avoiding her.
The idea that Daniel was deliberately avoiding her caused Fossi pain and yet, strangely enough . . . hope.
Well . . . hope in a sad, demented sort of way.
Avoidance required effort.
Avoidance implied that he thought of her and had devised a plan of action.
But why?
Wasn’t she a friend?
Why avoid Foster Lovejoy?
Was he like Mr. Young once upon a time? Did he consider her tiresome and an abuser of his kindness?
That thought burned with vicious mortification.
But she was his employee . . . she didn’t require his kindness. There was no societal reason for him to feel obligated to be amiable towards her. He could send her away at any time if he found her irksome.
So perhaps she was wrong about the deliberate avoidance then.
But . . .
He wasn’t gone all day. He did return. He just ensured he was never where Fossi was.
She realized this as she strolled the garden in the late afternoon on the fifth day after her arrival at Whitmoor House, trying to calm her emotions and tire her muscles enough that she would find sleep once evening fell.
Daniel had not shown himself all day. Everyone had said he was gone to town (the butler) or out visiting (Mrs. Evans-Clark) or . . . something.
But Fossi chanced to look up at that mysterious corner room with its locked doors that no one entered.
Sunlight poured through one window and out the opposite pane . . . rimming a tall man in silhouette.
A man who looked out to the garden and surely saw her as clearly as she could see him.
For a man who was theoretically not avoiding her, Daniel had every appearance of wishing to remain invisible.
And why couldn’t she decide if such avoidance—if it did exist—was a good or bad thing?
Chapter 16
The locked room
Whitmoor House
September 26, 1828
Daniel was avoiding her.
Even worse, he was quite sure Fossi knew he was avoiding her. She was far too intelligent and observant.
That moment with the entry door . . .
Daniel drew in a deep, fortifying breath.
He had known there was something between him and Fossi. But it wasn’t until he held her bare hand in his that he realized precisely how much chemistry they had.
Sparks. Electricity.
He had lived long enough to understand exactly how rare such a connection really was.
As they had stood in front of the door, her back to his chest, he had nearly caved. Wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her against him . . . she would have been soft and warm in his arms. The motion felt so natural, an outward expression of what his heart already knew. Even five days on, the tangible feel of her hadn’t left him.
And given how her breath had hitched and skin blushed, she had not been unaffected.
So much fire burned just beneath her surface. She would never be a dull companion, her manners easy and unaffected. With her quick wit, she would always match him. Her mind always three steps ahead.
Anyone could be beautiful, Daniel had long ago decided. The world abounded in beautiful women.
But it took something more for a person to be beautiful and interesting. A certain spark that captured the mind as well as the heart.
Foster Lovejoy failed to understand her charms. Her complete lack of artifice was one of many traits that drew him. She would never play emotional games, as Alice had.
But after the Door Fiasco, as he mentally dubbed it, distance had seemed . . . wise.
Fossi was an emotional complication he could not afford.
Guilt swept through him with brutal force, crushing from all directions. Regret that Fossi could never be more to him. Shame because she deserved better than his erratic hot-and-cold behavior. Deep-rooted blame for the event two years ago that had brought him to this point.
He had to keep a laser-like focus on his goal. Too much depended on it.
Returning to Whitmoor Ho
use had brought home, quite literally, the enormity of the task before him.
He stood in the room he kept under lock and key. It hurt, being here. Guilt threatened to drag him under. Which explained why it had taken him five days to work up the courage to enter. But seeing the space again gave him continued resolve.
He would fix his mistake.
This room was his past and his future. And neither could feature Foster Lovejoy in any permanent way.
Of course, all these thoughts did not prevent him from staring at her as she paced the garden out the window.
She was upset. He could see it in the tense line of her back, the inward slouch of her shoulders.
He had missed her, these past few days.
And his foolish heart decided that it couldn’t tolerate the thought of Fossi being hurt. Even if he were the cause.
He relocked the room and was halfway down the stairs before he admitted what he was doing.
He should just continue to avoid her. Listen to all the guilt his conscience shouted his way.
She would finish her work for him and, once he fixed his mistake, she would remember him no more.
But . . .
He was helpless to stay away.
The one person who could possibly solve his situation was also rapidly becoming a source of its potential demise.
Impossible contradictions.
He found her seated on a bench in the rose garden. The air had acquired the subtle crispness of fall, making the warm sun all the more precious.
Consequently, her head was bare—her bonnet nestled beside her on the bench—the caramel highlights in her hair glinting in the sunlight. She had her face tilted up toward the autumn sky. The angle emphasized the graceful beauty of her neck, the alabaster porcelain of her skin.
She stole his breath.
His feet crunched on the gravel walk, startling her.
Her head jerked upright, and she bounded to her feet, bobbing a polite curtsy, head down.
“Lord Whitmoor.” A telling flush spread upward from her neck, her gaze fixed on his toes.
Back to that, were they?
“I trust you have settled in well, Fossi?” He had no intention of retreating into formalities, despite his better judgment.