Footsteps padded against the dirt, stirring up a bit of dust, but I continued stroking the mare’s neck.
“She suits you,” came Mr. Windham’s deep voice. “Her name is Duchess, after the Duchess of Parma.”
I twisted to meet his glance and startled when I did not see Elliot beside him. “Mr. Windham. Will Elliot be joining us?”
“No, I am afraid not.”
I dropped my hands to the side, attempting to act as normal as I might in the presence of a stranger—a stranger I had humiliated myself in front of multiple times. I lifted my chin and motioned to the horse. “She is lovely, but why on earth did Mr. Somerville name her after Napoleon’s wife?”
Mr. Windham laughed, stopping at the stable beside mine, in front of the white stallion. “He did not. I did.”
“You named her?”
He turned, bowing with an actor’s flourish. “My father has the habit of collecting far too many horses, and a few years ago, our stable was nearly overrun. Mr. Somerville purchased Duchess as a favor, and for a quiet horse that guests may ride when visiting.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “I see, and Mr. Somerville kept the name?”
“Why would he not?” Mr. Windham opened the stall next to mine, patting the stallion. “Now, every time I visit, Napoleon pines after her as much as he did when she was in our stables with him. His name suits him quite well I think—a stubborn beast with his eyes set upon nothing less than conquering the world…and this lovely mare.”
“Napoleon?” I said, dipping my head toward his horse. Perhaps I had been too hasty in judging the horse. I could never believe Mr. Windham to keep a horse with a manner like that of Mr. Braithewaite. “I believe I understand now.”
He grinned, exiting the stall to come to my side. “However, with my long hours at the bookshop, I struggle to find sufficient time for Napoleon.”
I studied him. He had changed from his traveling trousers, and, now, Mr. Windham appeared anything but a shop clerk. How had I believed that for one second? Even without his elegant hat, his navy coat with brass buttons, or the leather riding boots that were clearly made-to-order, there had been something unnamable, something in his manner and look that should have told me Mr. Simon Windham was no common tradesman.
I shook my head and puffed out a breath. “I am sorry if I insulted you by assuming you were—by assuming you worked there.”
“No offense was taken, not in the least. I have never been mistaken in that way, and the whole situation caught me off guard. I found it quite refreshing, to be honest.” His smile was easy. “Though, I would consider it a favor if that particular anecdote were never heard by my mother who is always wishing me to be dressed finer than I tend to be.”
The stallion pushed his nose against Mr. Windham’s cheek, and he gave the horse an affectionate scratch on his neck.
I laughed, remembering the entire ordeal. How I had agonized over my treatment of him, how I had chided myself! Somehow, seeing Mr. Windham again brought relief. He had taken my absurd behavior in good stride. Thankfully. I cleared my throat. “But now that we have met again, and this time for an entire month, I shall endeavor to spare you from further injuries at my hand.”
“What a relief.” He breathed out a slow breath, but the corner of his mouth suggested another tease. “Fate has seen to give us another meeting, and I shall try to prove that I am more than a clerk in a bookshop.”
“And my ribbon?” I said, holding out my hand expectantly. Seeing him pull it out again in another retelling might prove catastrophic for my composure, especially if Anna saw it; she had seen that ribbon in my hair enough to recognize it amongst a dozen other ribbons.
He lifted a brow, leaning closer. “As I recall, the ribbon was a gift as penance for your conduct.”
My eyes widened. “You cannot plan to keep it, Mr. Windham, not when I am here, requesting it.”
“And why not?” His face held a lightness that I had not expected once I learned his station—though, with Elliot as his best friend, I should not have been surprised. “I already told you, I plan to preserve that memory. Do not worry, however, for I shall supply you with a new one. Blue again?”
I dropped my hands to my sides. Did nothing rattle this man, not even the duty of chivalry? And yet, I could not help but smile. “If you must be so difficult, I should like you to choose the color.”
He arched a thick, dark brow at me. “You want me to pick a ribbon? I know nothing of a lady’s preference, least of all yours.”
“Exactly, but you do know your preference, and I wish you to pick a color furthest from your taste so that I may be assured you will not be tempted to add the new one to your collection.”
“My collection?” His laughter served as recompense for his ridiculous behavior; the sound was undeniably lovely. “Then I shall try to choose the very worst of ribbons.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Mr. Windham offered his arm and led me down the row of horses, describing the temperament of each. He agreed with my first instinct that no other horse suited me as well as Duchess, and he suggested we ride the following morning, mentioning Elliot and Elliot’s fiancée.
“He’s a bit upon the thorns over seeing her again,” Mr. Windham whispered. “They have not been in one another’s company for many months. And I shall endeavor to use that information against him at every turn. I would add that I feel no regret in allowing you this detail as he has willingly stranded us together—two near strangers.”
“And these are the words of Elliot’s closest friend?”
His laughter warmed the air between us again. “Elliot is the nearest I shall ever have to a brother.”
“As one of three sisters, I cannot pretend to understand the incessant teasing at one another’s expense.”
“Well,” Mr. Windham drew out, “that will always be the way with Elliot and myself.”
Two men with enough means to not have the worries of so many, yet without the obligations of decorum that came with lofty titles. What a world that must be to live in?
We stood at the edge of the stables now, and the entirety of the grounds stretched before us. The landscape had a beauty that was as ancient as it was new. Rock fences from hundreds of years still sectioned off the pastures in the far distance, but a new dirt path, edged with white bricks, led to a ridge’s peak. So many shades of green in so many different patterns—pockets of bulbous treetops, grassy knolls that rolled into one another, and pastures thick with woolen specks.
I glanced over my shoulder. “What kept Elliot?”
Mr. Windham studied my expression. “He had an appointment with the gardener, I believe, and asked that I give you a tour instead, with the groom in tow of course. I know the stables and land at Haven’s Landing as well as Elliot himself. Now, Miss Kinsley, which direction shall we ride tomorrow morning?”
Dirt paths and roads scribbled across the scene in front of me like a child’s efforts on the blackboard; they were all the same to me, for I knew where none of them began or ended. I gestured toward the highest hilltop. “Whichever path leads there.”
“Yes, I think you would appreciate the view,” he said, nodding.
I struggled to recall Mrs. Somerville’s useless facts about the expected guests. Mr. Simon Windham—she had mentioned him, but what was it she had said? The facts blended into one another, until I could hardly recall anything more than a mountain of illogical words: pink, blood pudding, newspaper, solitude, dandy dancing, goldfish, wig collection, tea. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the things that mattered? A single detail might have spurred conversation.
He spoke once more. “These hills were once the cause of Roman invasion. They fought for the chance to mine lead from the limestone. Forts were built throughout the county, and you’ll find the remnants of one just over that ridge.”
I squinted, shielding my eyes from the sun overhead. “I imagine you and Elliot spent many afternoons as children, reimagining the events.”
“Yes, I imagine you never tasted defeat.”
“Until our mothers discovered we had not attended to our schoolwork.” He peered down at me, his expression that of mock seriousness. “We were soon banned from studying outdoors.”
I closed my eyes, allowing nostalgia to carry me to my own childhood days spent on the cliffs and beaches—Juliet’s hand in mine as we tasted the salty spray and watched the waves curl into one another. My youngest sister, Charlotte, was always running about with the neighbor children. I hardly knew her, but the flash of her dark hair and green eyes across my memory served to rouse a smile.
Strangely, imagining a young Elliot and Mr. Windham at play during that time, though miles apart, seemed as natural as imagining my own childhood.
My sister once told me that if my home of Bridlington could speak, the cliffs and sea would speak less about herself and more of those afloat her wind-torn waves or the fishermen and their nets along the beach. A place held interest for its variety, Juliet had said, but beauty came from its history, its people.
“Do you live far from Haven’s Landing?” I asked Mr. Windham when we circled back toward the stable.
“East of here but five miles. However, my parents traveled the continent on more than one occasion, and Mrs. Somerville insisted I come to Haven’s Landing, where I would be cared for alongside Elliot. She hated the idea of me in that house with only servants to attend me.”
I fiddled with my glove. “And your home? What is it like?”
He shrugged. “You will see for yourself, at least at a distance when we ride. And then my mother and grandmother will be joining the party. My mother believes I spend far too much time at Haven’s Landing as it is, but now that I have agreed to stay for the month, she is taking measures to ensure she sees me from time to time.”
“Then you must take her insistence as proof of her love.”
He wrinkled his brows and bit the edge of his lip, glancing at the groom behind us before whispering, “That, or she has determined to play the part so that I might still procure her a daughter and grandchild.”
I gasped. “I cannot believe she doubts your success in that arena.”
“She does, more than you know.” We locked eyes for a moment, and Mr. Windham tilted his head closer. “But perhaps she need not worry, not if Mrs. Somerville’s plans to marry off half the county prove successful.”
I laughed, wrapping my arms around my middle. “Then you are not unaware of her plans for you and the rest of us?”
“I have known Mrs. Somerville for far too long, and I can sniff her schemes a mile away, often before she has discovered them herself.”
A flash of pink caught my eye, and I turned to see Anna in her finest afternoon gown, a dress she usually saved for public outings. Her figure floated across the lawn with unusual speed.
“When I stayed at Haven’s Landing as a child,” Mr. Windham continued, his eyes falling to the ground in supposed recollection, “Mrs. Somerville was my advocate. I had a knack for teasing others, and after releasing a pair of field mice in Cook’s kitchen as afternoon entertainment, I rather feared for my life. That woman may seem gentle, Miss Kinsley, but—”
He jolted to a stop. His lips pulled downward as his gaze met Anna.
She stood only fifteen feet from us, and a trace of gray marked her usually cheery porcelain skin. “There you are. I looked everywhere. Elliot said something about a tour of the stables with Mr. Windham. But, then, you were gone so very long. I am afraid I have been pacing the length of the lawns for the last forty-five minutes.”
We had not been gone longer than twenty minutes.
Mr. Windham offered a bow. “Anna, I hope you enjoyed London. Elliot tells me you shall marry by summer’s end.”
“Goodness, no,” Anna said, spreading her lips into a strange shape. Was that a smile? She fanned her cheeks which had mysteriously darkened to deep scarlet. “That is, I did have offers—three to be exact—and perhaps I would have received more had I stayed longer, but I have made no promise. No promise at all.”
“Yet,” I added, smiling. “But, I would not be the least surprised if you received three more. You are lovely, Anna.”
Her expression relaxed, but she tried at modesty. “Oh, Isabelle, I do adore you.”
Mr. Windham lifted his hat to rake a hand through his dark hair. His nose wrinkled near the bridge. “Neither of you must convince me of Anna’s charms. As you know, Miss Kinsley, I am well acquainted with Miss Somerville.”
Anna’s bottom lip jutted forward. “Mother has questions for you, Isabelle, before we dine this evening. She is in the parlor.”
I turned to my guide, curtsying carefully. What had been humiliation, at discovering his identity in the library, had quickly melted into amusement and easy conversation. Mr. Windham was as unexpected as he was handsome. “Thank you for the tour, Mr. Windham.”
He nodded, bowing briefly. “Miss Kinsley.”
Anna stepped directly in front of me, slipping her hand around Mr. Windham’s arm. “Simon, we must take a turn about the gardens. We have so much to talk about.”
“Do we?” he asked, craning his neck to glance once more at me.
I stood, watching the pair of them as they disappeared down the path, and for the first time since Anna had become my friend, I rather regretted her presence, for I had not wished my time with Mr. Windham to come to an end.
Chapter 12
Simon
I could neither breathe nor speak in a respectable manner. My ears were playing tricks on me too, for I could hardly hear a word Anna spoke amidst the pounding in my chest. Anna’s incessant attempts often provoked discomfort. If ever I was tempted to forget myself as a gentleman, now was the moment.
I was sorely tempted to abandon Anna mid-sentence. Perhaps head to Derbyshire to find an awful ribbon.
Labored breaths, an inability to speak, and a pounding chest—a stranger might suppose such reactions to Anna evidence of affection. But then again, strangers were usually wrong. There was no misunderstanding the sensations coursing through me—dread was rather unmistakable; it was the same feeling that came over me each time I spoke with my father.
My father discarded my wishes much like my mother did, though he was not oblivious. He did not forget. He simply did not care about my desires. Running away for a grand tour was the most rebellious act I had ever committed, and even then, my father was a great supporter of traveling and history. Boasted to his friends of the family’s ability to do something so extravagant.
Anna looked nothing like my father. As a rule, young ladies rarely resembled seventy-year-old gentlemen. Her voice was smooth and pleasant, a far cry from my father’s deep and scratchy tone. She cross-stitched, while my father entertained himself by collecting lands.
And yet.
Anna and my father shared a few key characteristics—namely, their inability to see me as something more than an accessory, someone instead of something to be gained and mastered.
Like my father, Anna cared more about me as a means of her own happiness. Otherwise, we would not have been having this conversation. Not when I had written her and so carefully but directly explained my feelings toward her.
“Two years is far too long to go away, Simon. I wrote to you nearly every week without fail. Did you receive them?” Anna asked, peering up at me with mock innocence. Those blue eyes were more conniving than they looked.
I cleared my throat. “Yes. Did you receive mine?”
Her laughter rung inside my head like an off-key note. She shook her head back and forth as if I had told the most entertaining joke. “You mean to ask if I received your one, very poorly written, correspondence? The one that forgot to mention your travels or the many people you met? Yes, I do recall getting one. I merely skimmed it as it hardly spoke of anything consequential.”
A
nd this was the reason Anna would never be suited to me. I had laid out my thoughts and feelings in that letter, and she’d found them inconsequential.
I felt like my stallion, locked up in his stall. Anna was attempting to cage me in; I sensed it in the way she looked at me, the way she kept going on and on as if we were already engaged, and in the way she blatantly disregarded my letter.
I did not wish to repeat my sentiments, but I would not risk otherwise. I pulled my arm from her grasp, placing a few feet of distance between us. “Anna.”
“Dear me, have your travels made you serious?” Her smile was full of polite flirtation, rather than genuine affection or ease. “I could not bear it if you turned serious.”
“I was quite serious in my letter to you.”
For a fraction of a second, Anna’s lip trembled. But then, almost as quickly, a smile lifted the edges of her mouth. “You think I did not know then?”
I swallowed, but my mouth was too dry. “If you did, you have a strange way of showing it. You continued to write. You continue to carry on, even now, as if my feelings mean nothing to you.”
Anna took a small step forward, and her expression changed. The mask lifted. “I wonder if you mean every word still?”
Since she was a child, Anna had worn a mask. Laughter and coy smiles, entertaining chatter, exaggerated gestures—for one that wished to mold others, she had proven the most changeable of all. Her manners changed as quickly as her fashion. Around her father, she played the part of tender and adoring daughter. She always attempted to rattle her mother while also making it appear as if she were on her mother’s side. For me, however, Anna had determined to act composed at all times, happy in every moment, and silly at every turn.
She played her parts like the pieces on a chess board, and I expected she would eventually claim dominion of whatever invisible foe she faced. But why? What was it she wanted? People that wore masks hardly stopped to question why they did what they did, what it was they truly wanted.
Of Twisted Fates (Kinsley Sisters Book 1) Page 9