“I’m sure I can’t understand why you are so interested in the cottage or the occupant,” Mr. Peters said, fidgeting uncomfortably with his quill. “’Tis nothing remarkable about either one.”
“The operating fields are in good order,” Thomas said, developing a feigned motive as quickly as he could in hopes it would afford him more information. “And they meet up with some acreage I’m already farming. I am wondering if Lord Marchent might be inclined to sell—”
“He is not interested in selling,” Mr. Peters interrupted.
“You’re certain?”
“I am absolutely certain,” Mr. Peters said. “He was here not three months ago, reconciling his accounts and advising the caretaker on how to manage the coming season. There was no discussion regarding any interest in selling.”
“It isn’t a large enough parcel to be very profitable for the Viscount, especially if he lives so far south.”
“It makes a small amount,” Mr. Peters said.
“Certainly not more than it takes to keep the cottage operational,” Thomas argued. “A good portion of the fields are fallow and the cottage itself would not be fit even as a hunting lodge for a Viscount. Surely Lord Marchent would entertain an offer.” If necessary, Thomas could talk Albert into making a request himself. Mr. Peters might respond better to Lord Fielding.
“Lord Marchent retains the house for sentimental reasons.” The man’s nervousness was increasing.
“Sentimental reasons,” Thomas repeated. “And so who is it that lives there? A family member perhaps?”
“Yes. She is a widow in need of some convalescence. Elderly and crippled.” He seemed to add the last part as though to dissuade Thomas from making any designs on the woman as a way to acquire the land. Thomas ignored it.
“And she has been there for how long?”
“Since the summer,” Mr. Peters answered.
Thomas had last seen Miss Sterlington in May. He had assumed she’d returned to her family estate when she left London. Why would her family send her so far north as this? And to such a confining house? Was she alone except for her housekeeper? “And how long will she be staying?” Thomas asked.
“Certainly I do not know nor would I be at liberty to say if I did.” The man’s nervousness was changing to irritation. “I have told you far more than you are entitled to, Mr. Richards. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore.”
Thomas stood, fairly towering over the man even though Thomas was not of large stature. “You have helped me quite enough,” he said, putting his hat back on before turning and striding from the office, his head miles away in a cottage off the Romanby road, thinking about a woman who would only talk with him through the door but promised him tea when he returned on Friday.
Chapter 26
“I fear it has too much cinnamon. Does it have too much cinnamon?” Amber asked, wringing her hands as Suzanne cut another bite from the piece of spice cake Amber had made. Mr. Thomas Richards was a gentleman with all manner of experience with fine foods made by better cooks than she. If it were too poor she would not serve it and settle for biscuits from a tin. At least the weather had held so as to allow him the visit.
Suzanne swallowed the bite of cake and looked at Amber. “It is the perfect amount of cinnamon. Truly, it is perhaps the most delicious cake you have ever made.”
“You are certain? You are not flattering me?”
Suzanne laughed. “I am not flattering you,” she said and took another bite.
“I shall still drizzle it with some sugar glaze.”
“That will complement it nicely.”
Amber frowned. “You said it was delicious before I mentioned the glaze. Does that mean it is not as delicious without it?”
Suzanne laughed and stood from the table. “I must say I have not seen this side of you in all these months, Amber.”
“A gentleman is coming to the house,” Amber said by way of explanation. “It is the first time I have been a hostess.”
“And yet you will stay in your room?”
“Well, of course,” Amber said. She had not for a moment considered otherwise.
“Perhaps you should simply don your cap and meet him. All of town talks of you as though you are deformed or some such thing.”
“As long as they do not know how truly deformed I am, I shall be at peace with their gossip.”
“You are not deformed. Or crippled or ill. You have simply lost your hair.”
“I have simply lost everything,” Amber clarified, hating how quickly her excitement over Mr. Richards’s visit was fading now that they were talking of her condition.
“I would suggest again that we invite Dr. Marsh from Northallerton to attend you. Perhaps he—”
Amber cut off Suzanne’s words. “I will not talk of that when we are preparing for a visitor. I want any guest in my home to be comfortable and welcome.”
Suzanne seemed to consider her words for a moment, before speaking. “I have no doubt Mr. Richards will feel welcomed. It is kind of you to attend to his comfort.”
Amber was relieved to have Suzanne drop the argument. She turned her attention to the tea set and moved the pot to the left side of the tray, then back. It was porcelain and old, which didn’t bother her or Suzanne but seemed awful now that she anticipated a gentleman seeing it. She placed the nicest cup on the nicest saucer, then moved the sugar bowl far enough from the creamer so that the dishes wouldn’t hit together when Suzanne carried the tray into the library. Last of all, Amber drizzled three slices of cake with sugar glaze and set the platter, as well as an empty plate, on the tray.
She could not explain why she wanted Mr. Richards’s experience to be comfortable, but it was all she had thought about since talking with him through the door, and while it might simply be a symptom of her loneliness, it was a welcome change to feel so energized about anything at all. When she had told Suzanne of Mr. Richards’s visit, Suzanne had informed her that he was unmarried and most certainly of her station. Amber told both Suzanne and herself that those aspects made no difference, but she feared they did. Having a eligible man in her home was exciting even if she would not see him.
Amber rearranged the tea tray three more times before there was a strong knock at the front door.
“He is here,” Amber said, wiping her hands on her apron as she looked toward the door. She hurried into the foyer and stopped, staring at the door that separated her from her visitor. Suzanne came up behind her.
“Are you certain you will not join him for tea?”
Amber did not bother answering—they had argued over the topic quite enough—and instead lifted her skirts and quickly went up the stairs. She had planned to go to her room and close the door, as she did whenever Mrs. Haribow or Mr. Dariloo came to the cottage, but instead she moved to the side of the stairway as Suzanne opened the front door and welcomed Mr. Richards, who thanked her. Amber liked that she was already familiar with his voice, which was low in timbre and strong. If it were any reflection, his bearing was equally good, and she wished she dared peek around the corner to catch a glimpse of him.
Instead, Amber listened to their exchange as Suzanne led him to the library, making it harder for her to hear what was being said. After a minute, she heard Suzanne’s footsteps cross in front of the stairs for the kitchen.
Certain Mr. Richards would be staying in the library—she could trust a gentleman to stay in the room to which he’d been invited—Amber carefully moved down four steps in hopes to hear his reaction to the cake she had made especially for him. Each stair creaked slightly but she hoped he was so intent on the records he would not notice.
Suzanne obviously did not expect to see Amber when she crossed the stairway with the tea tray and startled slightly, causing some of the dishes to hit together. Amber covered her mouth with her hand, worried Suzanne would drop the tray completely. But Suzanne recovered without incident, sent Amber an narrow look, and then repaired her expression before continuing into the library.
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“I informed your mistress not to trouble with tea,” Mr. Richards said. “I am in her debt for the opportunity to search the library as it is.”
Amber smiled at the pleased tone in his voice. He truly was a gentleman and she relished his kind words.
“’Tis no trouble, sir,” Suzanne said. “She wants you to feel welcome.”
Amber came down a few more steps, so as to better hear their exchange. She made sure to stay hidden from view of the library.
“I had hoped I would get the chance to meet your mistress during this visit.”
“She is not one for visiting, but I shall pass along your kindness, sir. Please let me know if you need anything. The papers and ledgers you are wanting to see are located on the back bookshelf. I shall look in on you in a little while.”
He thanked her, and Suzanne left the room—sending another irritated glance Amber’s way as she passed the stairwell on her way to the kitchen.
Amber sat on the stairs and listened to Mr. Richards move around the room; she was ready to run if she heard his footsteps leave the hooked rug.
He seemed quite attentive to the library however, and her tension faded as the time passed. He would walk to the back of the room, presumably extract some documents from the shelf, then return to the desk and turn pages for an impossibly long time. It was perhaps the most uneventful afternoon Amber had ever spent, and yet she enjoyed visualizing him in the room she herself was so familiar with. She wondered what he thought of the book collections—they were impressive for such a house as this—and she suddenly wished she could discuss some of those books with him. She leaned her head against the wall and let out a breath. She missed the company of other people.
When Amber’s backside began to get sore, she realized that he may finish his investigation soon. It would be better if she left her hiding place before he discovered her. She stood and tiptoed up the stairs.
She returned to her bedroom and lay on the bed unable to say why his presence gave her such satisfaction except that to be a hostess and ensure the comfort of her guests was part of what she had been raised to do. To use such skills and attentions connected her to that part of herself she sometimes feared was gone forever. She felt she had attended to his comfort well and that pleased her. How long it had been since she had attended to anyone’s comfort but hers and Suzanne’s? And that attention was required, not chosen.
Amber looked to the window on the far wall and tucked her hands beneath her cheek. She closed her eyes and indulged herself in memories of the life she had once lived. She recalled waltzing at Almack’s. Attending the opera at Covent Gardens. Riding through Hyde Park during the fashionable hours. The opera. Card parties. Lemonade.
If only the memories were not so tainted by knowing how every dance was measured against whether or not the man was of acceptable rank, or if he had asked for a dance before she had an excuse to refuse him. Had she enjoyed any of those nights? Truly enjoyed them?
It had felt like pleasure then but now she wondered if she knew what pleasure was. Had she simply adjusted to this life so well that she could not remember the true enjoyment she had felt amid the ton, or had the fripperies of London been so gilded in expectation and falseness that they had not been pleasure at all but simply appeared to be?
If she woke up tomorrow with a full head of hair, but with the knowledge of what she had learned these last months, would she be a different woman than she had been in London? Could she dance for the enjoyment of it? Could she talk with men because she was sincerely interested in what they had to say? Or would she become the girl she’d been before? Would she manipulate and position herself because she was once again acceptable to society?
Would she give up the perspective she had now for the beauty and consequence she had then?
Chapter 27
Thomas laid a well-preserved paper on Albert’s desk upon his return to Peakview Manor. It had rained during Thomas’s return trip from the cottage, but he barely felt the cold for the thoughts he’d stoked throughout the ride. Albert glanced at his brother before exchanging the letter he was currently writing for the document Thomas had presented. He scanned the contents while Thomas sat in one of the leather chairs opposite the large desk.
“I promise not to spread the tale if you use your glass,” Thomas said, resting one ankle over the other knee. His trousers were wet from the rain. He should trade them for a dry pair, but he felt too tightly wound to attend to mere comfort.
“If documents were not written in such impossibly small print, the glass would not be a consideration.” Despite Albert’s argument, the quizzing glass appeared, and Albert scanned the sale agreement with greater attention.
“Praise the heavens,” Albert breathed when he reached the end of the page. He looked up at Thomas, his face bright with excitement. “The record was at the cottage, then?”
“All this time,” Thomas said, unable to hide a satisfied smile. “The caretaker who kept the squire’s records from eighty-seven to ninety-four was quite diligent.”
As Albert reread the document, Thomas was miles away in his memory, sitting in a small library while Amber Sterlington sat on the stairs. He had known she was there; he could swear he could feel her breathe while he had waited for her to present herself. Even after he found the record, he had extended his stay. She did not appear, however. Instead, after nearly an hour, he heard the stairs creak as she returned to the upper level of the house. The Miss Sterlington he knew would not have hidden herself away.
Curious as to whether she would return—perhaps after making herself presentable—he had stayed at least half an hour longer, until the three slices of cake were gone, and he could find no reason to extend the visit he had already drawn out far past the deadline of polite society.
With his curiosity unsatisfied regarding Miss Sterlington, he had spent the ride back to Peakview pondering her being in his county at all.
At Carlton House, he had seen the condition of her hair from the rinse gone poorly—could that account for her being here all this time and not showing herself? It did not explain why she had given a false identity, however, and he could not help but wonder if there was perhaps another reason she was in hiding. A much more damning reason.
Thomas had defended her virtue to Fenton, but a delicate condition would necessitate a complete removal from a society intolerant of indiscretions of its young women. Miss Sterlington had been in London seven months ago, which, if she were in fact increasing, could explain why she would hide from him. Could that be the true reason for the fear and vulnerability he’d seen on her face that night? Was she afraid of far darker secrets coming to light?
It was not difficult to cast his memory to the night at Almack’s when she’d snubbed him and shattered his security amid the society of London. Or to recall her manipulations at Fenton’s card party. Was it so hard to consider that her character was more failing than he had thought?
“Thomas?”
He looked up at his brother who was regarding him with a questioning expression. “Are you well?”
“Quite,” Thomas said, attempting a smile he knew must look as stiff as it felt. “Would you like me to take the document to Mr. Llewelyn?”
“It can wait until tomorrow,” Albert said. He pushed away from his desk and moved to the door. “I should like to tell Lady Fielding of the success of your visit, however. If you’ll excuse me.”
Thomas waited until Albert had left the room, then stood and walked to the fireplace. The chill from his journey was beginning to settle about him, and he shivered as he leaned his forearms on the mantel and dropped his head onto his arms. His stomach was tight with continued thoughts of Amber Sterlington and her reasons for being so far from her rightful place. He had thought of her less and less in recent weeks and had counted that a success. Yet now she was back, closer than ever. Why could he not be rid of her completely? Why was she thrust into his path again and again when she brought such difficulty with her every time?
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“Please,” he said out loud, begging for relief of his pull toward her even while picturing Amber Sterlington sitting on those stairs. She had been unable or unwilling to show herself to him and yet for reasons he could not make sense of, he felt that she wanted to be near him.
Why?
Did she know who he was? Did she know it was he who had given her his coat?
More importantly, what would he do now? She was here, near his home and his comforts. Would he seek her out again? What would be his motivation? Did some part of him still hold on to the hope she might notice him?
He growled at the idea of it, embarrassed to admit wanting such a thing. That it followed his suspicions of her lack of virtue and goodness made him even more repulsed with the seemingly uncontrollable desire to find a reason to return to the cottage. What was his expectation?
“Nothing,” he said to the room as he pushed away from the mantel. “She is nothing to me, and I shall do nothing at all to satisfy my curiosity.”
With those words surrounding him, he headed for his bedchamber, a suit of dry clothes, and perhaps a glass of port. He was a man of discipline and focus. He could keep his thoughts in check. He could rid his mind of her if he chose, and he would.
Each time thoughts of her entered his mind, he would think of something entirely different—like cows, or ditches, or Albert’s silly quizzing glass. Anything to keep his thoughts of off her—a woman undeserving of his attentions.
It would work.
He would make certain.
Chapter 28
January
Thomas secured Farthing to the post and hurried through the open doorway of the blacksmith shop located on the west end of Northallerton. The shop was sweltering in the summertime but today it was a welcome heat that greeted him. He removed his hat and brushed the snow from it, then looked over his shoulder with a frown. The storm had moved in far faster than he’d expected when he’d set out on his errands in town. He would be glad to complete his business quickly and return to Peakview Manor for the duration of the tempest.
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