Desperately, Gervaise clung to the horse, but the twist before the take-off had shifted his balance too far. Time seemed to slow as he fell, the air crisp and cold on his face, the entirety of his vision filled by the enormous log below him. Then he crashed into it, there was a sickening crack, pain overwhelmed him and he felt his leg twist into an impossible position as he slid down the side of the log. By the time he landed in the snow, he was unconscious.
Chapter Three
Late March 1818
Jane reached the village, still wondering about the man who had almost run her down. Who was he? He had not introduced himself, and she had not asked – nor had she introduced herself, for that matter. He was obviously wealthy, but that could mean anything, as far as his station in life. She supposed it didn’t matter – she was unlikely to ever see him again.
At that thought, there was a pang of almost disappointment. She pushed the silly reaction aside – what did it matter if she ever saw him again? He probably thought her some kind of fluff brained silly goose – she had not exactly delivered sparkling conversation, after all – and she had been lying in the spring grass, laughing like a mad thing. She pushed all thought of him aside, and decided to deal with her appearance first.
Mrs Tanner was the village seamstress, so she had a mirror – a very large mirror, which she was inordinately proud of. Jane turned her steps that way, intending to discover just how bad the grass stains on her skirts were.
Mrs Tanner fussed over her, because Jane claimed to have simply tripped and fallen onto the verge. She was really not interested in starting off a chain of speculative gossip about that man. For some reason, which she did not examine too closely, she wanted to keep his existence, and their meeting, all to herself.
Half an hour later, Jane emerged, wearing a new dress, carrying the old one in a parcel, and with the flower petals all combed out of her hair. Mrs Tanner was happy, having made a sale, and Jane had been regaled with the village gossip from the last week. Truth to tell, Jane had stopped listening after a while – Mrs Tanner required no answers, and simply droned on.
A few words here and there had interrupted her thoughts, which had, mostly, drifted back to remembering exactly how pleasant that man had been – both to look upon, and to listen to. Mrs Tanner had been rambling on about the woodcutters, and something about invalids, and gypsies in the next town. Jane assumed that she would hear it all again from others in the village, and that it would eventually make sense.
But by the end of her visit, after some tea and cakes in the new little tea house, and some more shopping – mainly for new toys for Daniel, she was no wiser. Perhaps Mrs Tanner had been imagining things. She set off back to the Dower House, well pleased with her day.
~~~~~
Nicholas found that his need to rush had disappeared. Something about seeing a grown woman allow herself to laugh with genuine pleasure in the day had changed things.
Her soft brown hair had looked beautiful, full of flower petals. It was that odd mid brown colour which allowed grey hairs to fade into it – so he was not sure of her age. To him, she had simply looked beautiful, her eyes alight with pleasure in the day, and her manner unaffected. He had not thought of a woman as attractive for a long time – not since Clara’s death, if he were honest with himself. Yet the woman on the road had most definitely seemed attractive to him.
He found himself hoping that he would see her again. The thought made him feel guilty, disloyal to Clara. Yet that was an irrational way to feel. Clara was gone. And she would not wish him miserable and alone for the rest of his life. He knew that for a certainty – she had told him so, in those last dark days before the illness had taken her life. Yet still, he felt guilty.
He turned his thoughts away from women, and back to his purpose. Windemere Towers was now before him. He had not been here for many years, yet it was clear in his memory. He had first met Julian when they were both at Oxford – they had both been far more likely to spend time in the library than out on the town with a raucous crowd of their peers. They had become fast friends, and he had spent a few term breaks at Windemere Towers.
Last he had seen it, it was mostly closed up, and somehow sad and worn. Antonia had never liked the place, and Julian had not been here often while she was alive. Today, it seemed different – brighter, the gardens well-tended, the new spring flowers lending colour everywhere. He was glad. Julian deserved a far happier life than he’d had with Antonia.
He swung off his horse in front of the imposing portico, to be greeted by a waiting footman.
As the man took his horse, assuring him that it would be taken to the stables immediately, the front door opened, and Felton, his valet, came rushing down the steps.
“My Lord! I was beginning to worry…”
“Nonsense Felton, nothing to worry about. I’ve no intention of disappearing…”
He paused, his jaw clenched. He could not say the words, could not finish the sentence - ‘like Gervaise’ his mind finished it for him, internally. The silence extended a moment, then Felton spoke again.
“I’ve everything arranged in your rooms, my Lord. The Duke has provided a delightful suite. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up before greeting him?”
“A good idea. Lead on.”
It was strange to step through the doors of Windemere Towers again, after so long. Part of him still expected the old Duke to be there, for everything to be as it had been, thirty years before. He shook off the odd sensation, admiring the gleaming floors and furniture, and the new, lighter coloured drapes and wallpaper. The place looked good, and, somehow, it felt cheerful, happy.
The valet led him up two floors, and along a hallway, where the portraits of Julian’s ancestors glared down at him from gilded frames. That much had not changed at all. The guest suite was large, with a parlour, a large bedroom, a dressing room, and two small rooms off that for servants. Hattam, Gervaise’s valet, waited nervously for his arrival. Nicholas shook his head sadly in answer to the unspoken question, when Hattam’s eyes met his.
The man turned away, and busied himself with the provision of a bath in the dressing room, as Felton helped Nicholas shed his dusty clothes. A perfectly prepared set of clothes lay waiting for him on the bed. Nicholas sighed – if not for the reason for his visit, this would be a most pleasant day.
He allowed himself to be cleaned and tidied, and dressed to perfection, then went downstairs to greet Julian, and his new wife. And to meet Julian’s daughter-in-law, and his grandson – that was a story he wanted to hear more of, indeed.
~~~~~
Jane heard Barnes’ deep voice, quickly followed by Daniel’s bright child’s tones, then the closing of the front door. Moments later, the parlour door opened, and a high speed small child flung himself across the room to land on her lap.
“Hello Daniel! Could you perhaps not squash me?”
Jane hugged the child, before gently pushing him off her, so that she could breathe. He stopped, looking at her, his head tilted to one side, his eyes bright.
“You don’t look squashed Gramma.”
“I’m not – quite – I caught you in time!”
He laughed, and Jane looked up to the doorway, where Marion watched them, her face alight with amusement.
“He’s getting rather heavy, isn’t he?”
Daniel looked at his mother, attempting to look offended at her words, then spoiled the effect completely by giggling.
“You can’t deny that you’re growing, Daniel. I think you’ve grown a foot taller in this last year. But… I think you still like toys just as much as you did when you were smaller – don’t you?”
The boy’s eyes lit with interest, and the acquisitive curiosity common to all children.
“Toys?”
“Yes, toys. If you look in that box over on the chair…”
Jane did not need to say anything further. Within seconds he had reached the box, pulled it open, and tipped out the new toys she had brought back from the
village the previous day.
Marion joined Jane on the couch, and Jane rang for tea and cakes. Marion watched Daniel for a while, then turned to Jane.
“That should keep him occupied for a while, at least. You seem to have an instinct for exactly the sort of toys that will most engage him.”
“I simply asked Mr Joiner what he thought a young boy would like, and let him make what he thought best – I can’t claim any credit for cleverness.”
“Then I must thank him, next time I go to the village. But I came to see you today to tell you about the latest things to happen up at the Towers. You so rarely come to me, mother.”
Marion sighed, and Jane looked a little guilty at her words. She could not explain it to Marion – she still felt so out of place in the Duke’s home, no matter that she had run wild in its hallways as a child. But it was Marion’s home now, and Jane supposed that she would get more used to it with time. She was certainly grateful for the Dower House, and having a home of her own.
“I will come more often, perhaps one evening next week, for dinner?”
“That would be wonderful! Our guest will likely still be with us then, too.”
“Guest?”
“He arrived yesterday. The Earl of Amberhithe. He is an old friend of the Duke’s, from their school days. They seem very alike, in some ways, for the Earl is a kind man, from what I have seen, and not prone to excess.”
“It is good then – for it seemed to me that Julian has been very lonely for many years – a visit from an old friend must be good for him.”
“Yes. But the Earl’s reason for visiting is a sad one. His only son, Viscount Woodridge, is missing – has been missing since late January, and he is deeply worried. He has come to seek the Duke’s aid in searching for the Viscount.”
Jane looked at Marion a moment, then spoke gently.
“That must be hard for him – and hard for Julian, and for you – for surely it is a terrible reminder of Martin’s loss. Julian will do everything in his power to help, I know, for he could not bear to see a friend suffer the loss of a son, as he has done.”
Marion nodded and, fleetingly, her eyes clouded with grief – a grief that nearly five years had done nothing to diminish. She shook it off, smiling wanly at her mother.
“Yes, that is true. I hope that they find him, but the Earl has already searched extensively, and I fear that he despairs. His wife has been gone these two years now, and the loss of his son would break him, I think.”
Jane nodded, saddened at the thought.
With unspoken consent, they turned the conversation to lighter topics – to the gossip from the servants’ hall, and from the village, to the changes in the lives of the people they had lived amongst for so long, as commoners like them. There was a measure of joy in simply seeing the lives of those they knew go on, knowing that Julian’s return to live at Windemere Towers, and Marion’s rise in status, had given the village new energy and purpose.
Daniel, once thought an illegitimate nothing, now the Earl of Scartwick, and heir to a Dukedom, played on, scattering blocks and carved animals about the floor in front of them, blissfully oblivious to the concerns of adults.
Chapter Four
Jane, as was her habit most days, went walking through the extensive gardens that ran from the back of the Dower House down towards the stream. It was peaceful, and beautiful.
She was particularly fond of the artfully constructed folly near the stream – it looked like an old wall, with wrought iron ‘window’ traceries set into it, and covered in vines and flowers.
Somehow, outside, with spring flowers surrounding her, it was easier not to think about how empty the Dower House seemed, when she, with a few servants, was the only occupant. After years of living with first, her late husband, then with her mother as she cared for her, and then with Marion and Daniel, being alone was a strange experience. At first, it was pleasant, especially with the space that the Dower House gave her, but soon, she began to crave more company.
She was not comfortable imposing herself upon Julian, especially as he was only recently remarried, and her visits to the village did not really fill the emptiness.
She was, in a way, ashamed of feeling that way – for, after all, she was now better off than she had ever expected to be – to complain seemed ungrateful in the worst way.
Yet the loneliness remained, and became worse with each passing week.
The day after Marion’s visit, she had taken a book with her, and sat on the stone bench by the folly, not really reading – simply staring out across the stream, thinking, twirling a flower in her fingers. She concluded that she needed a purpose, and needed new acquaintances. Not that there was anything wrong with her current acquaintances, but… they were all either of the nobility, or very thoroughly common, from the lower orders of society in country villages and amongst the servants.
Jane seemed, to herself at least, to be stuck between the two extremes. She got on with people from both levels of society, but did not really belong in either. She wondered, in truth, if there were others as suspended between as she was, or if she was alone in that state. Her musings were interrupted by the sudden cessation of birdsong, followed by the clatter of a pebble on the rocks of the stream edge. The sound came from behind her.
“Ah, we meet again. Still amongst the flowers, but at least you have a seat this time.”
The resonant voice slid through her, warm and rich, making her think of the heated drink she had tasted, made of chocolate and an extravagant amount of sugar and cream. It seemed to vibrate to her very bones, drawing forth an involuntary shiver of pleasure at the sensation.
She turned, shading her eyes against the sun.
It was the man who had so nearly run her down a few days before. He smiled – a smile that filled his eyes, and made his face seem even more handsome than before. That smile was quite breath-taking. Jane found herself lost for words, struggling to find a polite reply, in the face of the impact of his presence. She forced words out.
“Yes. It is a rather more comfortable place to appreciate the day than the grass of the verge.”
“Indeed. Might I join you?” She nodded, tucking her skirts out of the way, and waving him to the seat beside her. “Thank you. This is a beautiful spot.”
“It is. I come here often, just to immerse myself in the peace of it. Everything else seems less urgent, less stressful, once I have sat here for a while. Here, I can think, without interruption or distraction.”
As she said it, she realised that, perhaps, her words could be interpreted as somewhat rude, as implying that she resented his intrusion. She flushed, embarrassed. What was it about this man that somehow discommoded her, threw her off balance so?
“Ah. Perhaps I am an unwanted distraction, then?”
“No, no. I must apologise. I did not mean to imply so. In truth, I find your company restful, for you have been everything that is polite and kind to me, with no expectation of any specific response on my part. It is refreshing to have a conversation outside the settings of polite society, and the inherent expectations and constraints that such settings bring.”
She felt her heart beating harder as he looked at her.
She wondered what he saw. As she had spoken, she had realised the deep truth of her words. Here was a conversation in that liminal place she had been considering – for she did not know who he was, had no idea of his status in society, beyond that his clothes spoke of wealth, and he did not seem to feel the need to impose that status upon their interaction.
In this small piece of time, she simply was, not trying to be either commoner or quality, but simply Jane, talking to a man who was being simply himself. Had she been young, it would have been scandalous, this meeting alone, yet as she was a widow, she suspected no one would care.
His considering gaze slid over her, gently, not carrying any judgement that she could detect. Then he smiled again, and the air left her lungs. His warm voice caressed her ears again.
> “You are right. It is rare to have the chance to converse in a context where there are no subtle agendas and undertones. And yes, this place, and this situation is peaceful. I confess, I have been in need of peace, lately.”
“Then let us treasure this. Let us not contaminate it with any other part of life, from outside this place. My name is Jane – let us leave it at that – simply a name, with no other attachments.”
“I believe that you are wise indeed. The concept appeals to me greatly. My name is Nicholas. It is many years since I have been simply that – and now, speaking as such, choosing to be nothing but that, I feel a great weight lift from me. Perhaps it is the freight of others’ expectations that I cast away, at least for this little while.”
“Nicholas. A good name. it suits you.”
Jane had no idea why she felt that, but she did.
“Thank you. Names are strange things – we somehow gain impressions of them, as if a name might determine a person. Yet how can it? But it does. Jane is also a good name. I have never met a Jane I did not like.”
She flushed again, looking away a moment, embarrassed by the implied compliment, then turned back, mischief lighting her eyes.
“Then I shall try not to disappoint you. I would not wish to be the first to create a bad impression.”
“My dear Jane, I cannot imagine you doing so. For I know, already, that you are a woman of uncommon wisdom and good sense. A woman who is forgiving, and thinks things through. A woman who had the forbearance not to berate me for unconscionably bad behaviour on our first meeting. How could you, from an impression like that, fail to continue to delight?”
Was he… was he flirting? Jane was not sure, for it was many years since she had indulged in anything like that. Yet… it felt as if he was, gently, yet with honest intent. She was, she decided, pleased. There was a warmth in her, a feeling of being seen, of being appreciated, in a way that had not happened for a very long time. She savoured it – for who knew when she might feel that way again?
Falling for the Earl: Sweet and Clean Regency Romance (His Majesty's Hounds Book 12) Page 2