“Yes, thank you, Goodwin.”
The valet bobbed his head, then crossed the room to where she stood with the child. He held out his hand.
Bertie stared at it, but did not move.
“Go with Goodwin, Bertie,” she urged. “You heard Lord Trelawney ask him to take you to the nursery.”
“Want you.”
“I will be there soon, but you need to hurry, or the cakes for tea will be gone.”
As she had guessed, the mention of sweets changed Bertie’s mind. He placed his hand in Goodwin’s and went toward the door. “Goodbye, Arthur,” he called over his shoulder.
The valet exchanged a startled glance with Maris.
“Goodbye, Bertie,” the viscount said.
When the door closed behind the servant and child, Maris clasped her hands in front of her. Her feet again urged her to flee, but she could not leave without being dismissed. She had no idea if anyone else was in the viscount’s rooms or even nearby.
“Miss Oliver, would you mind sitting where I can see you without craning my neck?” Lord Trelawney asked.
Meekly, feeling like a lamb bound for slaughter, she walked toward where he sat. When she hesitated, he gestured at a chair to his left.
She sat on the edge, her shoes pressed against the floor. She was being silly. Lord Trelawney had never been anything but polite and respectful, even when he was in pain.
Shame flooded her. She had not asked what the extent of his injuries were, but she quickly rectified that.
“A strained knee and a twisted ankle,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Hockbridge told me to rest my leg today and to use the laudanum if I needed it to sleep tonight. In spite of Goodwin’s nagging, the pain is tolerable. Tomorrow, the doctor wants me to walk around a bit, using a cane, and to increase the distance I walk each day after that. He tells me in a few days I will experience no more than some twinges.”
“That is good to hear.”
“Very good to hear. How are the children?”
“At the moment, they are subdued, but I am sure that by the morrow they will return to their normal selves. From what your sisters have told me, after they were rescued, they recovered swiftly, save for a few nightmares. Those nightmares may have nothing to do with what happened to them. Maybe normal childhood fears of the dark and big animals.”
“Like bears?”
“Yes. Thank you for your kindness to Bertie.”
“He is a fine lad.”
“When he is not being a naughty one.”
The viscount chuckled again. “I saw your face when I admitted to being a bear. I want to assure you that I had no intention of scaring the boy. Not again, at any rate.”
Her face heated, and she wondered if she was blushing again. “I should have known that, my lord.”
“Why? You don’t know me well enough to guess beforehand how I might act.” He did not pause as he said, “Do me a favor, and do not chastise Bertie for calling me Arthur. I would prefer that he do so with a smile than cower away from me as he did before.”
She rubbed her hands together on her lap and stared at them. “I must warn you that when one of the children takes on a bad habit, they all seem to latch on to it quickly.”
“That is fine. As my goal is to get to know the children better, anything I can do to make them more comfortable with me is a step in the right direction. But you know them better than I. Would you agree with that opinion?”
“Yes,” she answered without looking up.
“Good. And now, Miss Oliver…”
He added nothing more, and she waited and waited. As one minute, then another, then a third passed, she wondered if she should excuse herself. Maybe he had fallen asleep. She raised her eyes.
Her breath caught as her gaze met and was held by his. He leaned forward and folded one of her hands between both of his. She stiffened, knowing how alone they were, but he made no further move toward her as he held her hands as gently as she would the children’s.
“Miss Oliver, if you do not look at me, I doubt the children will, either. They take their clues from you.”
“I am sorry. I did not mean to—”
“There is no need for an apology. I would rather speak of our next outing with the children.”
“Next?”
“As I told you, I have not given up on the idea of getting to know them. My sister has encouraged me to do so, and I learned as a child myself that doing as my sisters wish often makes my life easier.” He smiled.
Maris did, too. There was something so honest and earnest about his grin that she could not help responding. She wanted to ask why he hid behind his arrogant mask. She bit back the words, telling herself to be grateful that he was willing to speak more than a handful of words to her.
Instead, she asked, “When do you think you will feel well enough to spend time with the children again?”
“Is tomorrow possible?”
“But Mr. Hockbridge said—”
“I will not be running about with them. Rather, I thought you might bring them to the garden. They could play for a while, and then we can take a light tea together. That way, they will become accustomed to me.”
“If you are certain…”
“I am.” He released her hand as he covered his mouth to hide a yawn. “In the meantime, I shall make sure I am prepared.” He did not give her a chance to ask the obvious question before he said, “Now that Bertie believes he knows the meaning of his name, I am sure the others will wish to know theirs. If you would tell me more about them, I will devise something for each of them.”
Something softened inside Maris at his thoughtfulness. As she began to share stories about the children, she slowly sat back when he did. She could not recall the last time she had spoken easily with anyone. A part of her mind stayed on alert, but she focused on coming up with the perfect stories to describe each child.
She watched Lord Trelawney’s eyelids grow heavier. Yet he was listening closely, because he chuckled over some of the youngsters’ more mischievous antics. She kept talking until Goodwin returned. A single glance from him told her that Lord Trelawney’s valet believed it was time for the viscount to rest, as the doctor had ordered.
She stood, asking the viscount to excuse her to return to her duties. Lord Trelawney caught her hand as she walked past his chair. When she looked down into his ice-blue eyes, that sweet warmth glided through her anew.
“Thank you, Miss Oliver,” he said, trying to fight his obvious exhaustion. “I appreciate you telling me about your charges. Please bring them to the garden an hour or so before tea tomorrow afternoon.”
“Of course, my lord.” She drew her fingers away from his, her skin aquiver where his had touched it. “I know the children will be eager to race about after being inside this afternoon.”
“Good.”
It took every bit of Maris’s will for her to tear her gaze from his and walk toward the door. As she passed Goodwin, he gave her a silent nod. He opened the door so she could leave. She was glad he did, because her fingers trembled, and she was not sure she could have managed the latch.
She rushed toward the stairs leading up to the nursery floor. Tonight, the children needed to rest after their eventful day. But in the morning, once they finished breakfast and were clean and dressed, she would let them know about the outing with Lord Trelawney. They would be excited to have their tea al fresco. While they played, she would sit with the viscount for what she hoped would be another comfortable coze.
She halted in the middle of the staircase and clutched the banister. Oh, sweet heavens! Was she looking forward to seeing Lord Trelawney again on the morrow? She had no idea which version of him would be there: the quiet, almost forbidding man who had gone with them to the cove or the genial man whom she had spoken with minutes ago.
But it should not matter. The abrupt change should be alarming rather than appealing, a signal to remind her that becoming involved even a tiny bit in the viscount’s life
could lead her into a desperate situation. As when Lord Litchfield had chanced upon her alone in the book room. Had she completely lost every bit of her good sense? It would seem so, and she must recover it fast.
Very fast, before she ruined everything again, including herself.
Chapter Four
Though clouds gathered on the western horizon, sunlight shone through the changing leaves as if the whole world was bedecked in stained glass. Arthur inhaled deeply as he sat on the terrace overlooking the garden and the sea spread out to the horizon. Some autumn days could be unforgivingly windy, and today seemed like a special gift, before winter took Cornwall in its unforgiving grip.
He savored sitting in the sunshine while a breeze carried the pungent aromas of salt, drying fish and tar from the harbor. Even though he had been confined to the house less than a day, it seemed longer to a man accustomed to a life outdoors.
The rhythm of hammers came from where the stable was being rebuilt. It had burned two months ago, but the new one was rising. He had overseen the plans for it, and the building would be well suited for their use.
“You look satisfied with yourself,” said his older sister as she stepped onto the terrace. Carrie shifted into the shade so the baby she carried would not be bothered by the sunshine.
He started to rise, then thought better of it when pain slashed up his leg. Sinking into the chair, he said, “I was thinking of how those French pirates who tried to invade Porthlowen did us a favor by giving us an excuse to build a new stable.”
Carrie shivered and sat facing him. “You have an odd way of seeing good in something terrible.”
“As Shakespeare wrote, ‘Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.’” Arthur chuckled. “My tutor despaired of me ever retaining his lessons, but for some reason that quote stayed with me.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Do not pretend with me, Arthur. You always loved learning. While Raymond, Susanna and I were eager to play, you clung to the schoolroom. The dutiful son, learning his lessons and staying out of trouble.”
“Sometimes.” Again, the image burst into his head of his baby sister lying facedown in the water. “When I was younger, I was not as responsible.”
“None of us were.” She gazed out at the sea. “How could we spend our time in books when we had a vast wonderland to explore in Porthlowen?”
They sat in companionable silence, enjoying the sunshine. He kept his leg motionless, not wanting more of the jagged pains that sliced up from his ankle when he walked. He had refused to allow Goodwin to call for a couple of burly footmen to carry him from his bedchamber through the house. Being toted about like a helpless fool would be humiliating. Perhaps he had been foolish to give chase after the child instead of allowing Miss Oliver to retrieve him, but Arthur would not hesitate to do the same again.
You have the heart of a hero. Cranny’s words echoed in his memory. Always ready to go to someone’s rescue, no matter the cost.
At the time, Arthur had taken the words as a compliment. Now he was less certain his friend had intended them that way. Of course, Arthur would never be the great man that his friend was, giving his life in service to his country.
His hands fisted on the arms of his chair. His attempts to find out the truth about Cranny’s murder had led him to dead ends. The people present at his friend’s death had gone to earth and taken the truth with them.
“How are you getting along with the children?” Carrie’s voice intruded on his thoughts.
He pushed them aside gratefully. Until he had a new lead, losing himself in his frustration was a useless exercise. He pasted a smile on and faced her. “I seem to have made a friend of young Bertie.”
“I am glad to hear that.” She laughed. “They will be arriving soon, I am sure.”
“Who?”
“The children.” She dimpled as she laughed again. “Oh, Arthur, you are transparent at times. You have been glancing at the door every few seconds. Each time you do and no one is there, your disappointment is all over your face.”
Had he been eyeing the door that frequently? He had not been aware of that, though he was eager to see the children again.
And Miss Oliver.
He ignored that unsettling thought as he had others. It would be easier if the mention of her name, even in his mind, did not bring forth the image of her gentle smile and her bright green eyes. Though she kept her blond hair pulled back, the wisps about her face looked like spun sugar, soft and teasing his fingers to brush them aside.
“You seem to have taken to the children,” Carrie said, serious once again, “with an alacrity I did not expect. Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking you had no real motivation for getting to know them. I assumed, after she married, your affection for Gwendolyn had cooled.”
“I have always considered her a dear friend.”
“I do hope you did not present your proposal to her in that letter you sent off to her this morning.”
He wagged a finger at his sister. “I listened to all your advice, Carrie.”
“Good, because I would not wish you to make a muddle of this before it even begins.”
He chuckled, and he saw her surprise. Had she thought he would be so burdened with pain he would be dreary company? No, he realized with astonishment. His sister did not expect to hear merriment coming from him because he had laughed seldom since the news of Cranny’s death reached Porthlowen.
As the months passed, his plans to avenge his friend consumed him. He tried to heed his brother’s counsel to accept the words in Romans 12:19. Raymond had even written out the passage on a page Arthur had tossed atop his desk: Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.
It was impossible to forget Gwendolyn’s face lined with pain and sorrow as she had stood by Cranny’s grave. If there was any way Arthur could help God in this matter, he must.
Footsteps sounded inside the house, and he sat straighter. He watched the door, wondering which youngster would run out first.
Two white-haired women emerged. The Winwood twins lived in a simple cottage close to the harbor. They were the eldest residents of Porthlowen, but as spry as people half their age. Neither had ever married, because they had cared for their parents until the twins were deemed long past marriageable age. Whether that determination was made by the bachelors and widowers of Porthlowen, or the Winwoods had made that decision, the two women seemed happy.
They had identical straight noses and full lips. The only way to tell the two apart was that Miss Hyacinth Winwood always wore a feather or a bit of lace in the same light purple shade as her name. Miss Ivy Winwood never was seen unless she had something dark green with her.
They smiled broadly as they walked to where Arthur was pushing himself to his feet. He hid his grimace at the pain.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said as Carrie signaled to a footman to bring two more chairs.
“For you, my lord,” said Miss Hyacinth, the older of the sisters by what was reported to be ten minutes.
Miss Ivy held out the plate topped by a pile of sugary treats. “You have always been partial to our almond macaroons.”
He took one, knowing she would not move the plate until he did. Everyone in Porthlowen was aware of how kind the twin sisters were and how stubborn.
“It is the least we could do for a man who risked himself to save a dear little boy,” Miss Hyacinth said.
“Such a brave and noble act.” Miss Ivy refused to let her sister have the last word on any topic.
“Do sit,” he said, motioning toward the chairs.
“We will,” Miss Hyacinth replied, “so you will do the same and rest your injured leg.”
“And you must not come to your feet when we leave.” Miss Ivy gave him a look that could have halted a charging bull.
Arthur nodded and wondered if the tales he had heard were true. It was whispered in the village that, when the French pirates
had tried to break into the Winwood cottage, they were met with cast-iron pans and brooms. Though he doubted the truth of the tale, for his family had learned firsthand how vicious the pirates were, he also knew no damage had been done to the women’s home.
Miss Hyacinth was not satisfied. “Promise us that you will set your always gracious manners aside this once.”
“You must promise us.”
“I promise you, ladies,” he said.
“Excellent.”
“Most excellent.”
Arthur resisted the yearning to shake his head. Listening to the sisters was like watching a game of battledore and shuttlecock, back and forth the words went. Always quick, always insightful. Or so Carrie assured him. He found the two women amusing in their eccentric ways, though no one could question the warmth of their generous hearts.
He ate the macaroon and listened to Carrie talk with them. The confection was delicious, and he reached for a second one, which set off another round of comments about how nice it was to see a man enjoy sweets as he did.
The elderly twins paused when childish shouts came from past the far edge of the terrace. The youngsters came bouncing around the corner. Toby, who lived at the parsonage, was among them. He and Bertie were shoving each other playfully as they chased the other children. Giggles and shouts of excitement rose in the afternoon air.
“Oh, there are the dear babes,” Miss Hyacinth said, jumping to her feet.
“Aren’t they adorable?” Miss Ivy added.
“Utterly adorable.”
“Utterly.”
Arthur guessed they could go on and on forever without a break, but his ears could use a respite. Hoping they did not consider him rude, he called out, “Miss Oliver, we are over here.” He could not see her around the corner of the terrace; yet he had no doubt she was nearby. She seldom allowed the children out of her sight.
As if on cue, she ran into the clump of youngsters. She picked up Gil and swung him around. The moment she set him on the ground, little arms reached up as each child begged for a turn.
She must not have been aware of the group gathered on the terrace, because she laughed, sounding as young and carefree as her charges. Arthur was unable to pull his gaze from her. He watched how the sun glinted off the golden strands peeking from beneath her sedate bonnet. A smile lit her face even more brightly while her simple gown swirled about her ankles. She enjoyed the children’s exhilaration as much as they did.
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