Zach returned to the house almost an hour after stealing Bethany from Emma. Truly, he delighted in the child. She was easy to please, had taken to the riding as well as he’d expected, and hadn’t fussed at all when he’d told her they were done for the day.
“We had ourselves a bit of fun, didn’t we?” He asked her, as they swept through different rooms upon the ground floor, but found Miss Ainsley nowhere.
Bethany didn’t answer and Zach was thinking she was tired. He marched up the stairs and knocked upon Emma’s door but heard no call for entrance. A quick peek inside showed him only an empty chamber. Returning to the first floor, he finally saw another person, his housekeeper, stepping out of the dining room, a notepad and pencil in hand.
“Ah, Mrs. Conklin,” he called to her. “Have you any idea where Miss Ainsley might be?
When Mrs. Conklin had informed him that Miss Ainsley had asked to tour the entire house, he’d wondered idly what might be done with the child now.
His housekeeper laughed at this, and Zach himself grinned, as he supposed it did rather sound as if he’d only questioned, Now what do I do with her?
“She will be ready for her afternoon nap, I daresay,” suggested Mrs. Conklin, about to reach for the child.
“What does that involve?” Zach inquired, which had his housekeeper dropping her arms again.
A bit taken aback by his query and his interest, Mrs. Conklin had lifted a brow and told him, “Miss Ainsley likes to read to her in the nursery, while rocking. The sweet thing rarely resists—truly, she has the most wonderful temperament. And then she’s put to bed and usually sleeps for more than an hour.”
“Doesn’t sound very difficult,” Zach surmised. And he left the housekeeper, with a sleepy Bethany in his arms still, calling over his shoulder, “Look lively, Mrs. Conklin. I may return for assistance. But if you don’t see me in the next half hour, you may assume I’ve successfully managed to put a toddler in for a nap.”
He did just that.
Inside the nursery, on a small table beside the rocker sat a neat stack of books. Zach picked up the first one and settled into the chair. Tommy Thumb’s Pretty Song Book, according to the frontispiece of the apparently well-loved and well-used tome, is what he employed to lull Bethany to sleep. Her little blonde finger pointed to the pen and ink drawings on the pages while Zach read different rhymes to her, some of which he’d not ever heard before, or recalled. Soon, her hand was still upon the open book in his lap, and Zach rocked a few more minutes to be sure she slept before depositing her into the short bed. He straightened and stared down at her, thinking that she was very dear to him already, and then feeling quite accomplished for the feat he’d just managed.
Of course, it could be argued that their vigorous outing and the excitement of their pursuit had just as much a hand in getting Bethany to sleep, but Zach was willing to share in the glory of the job well done. He set the book down and wondered still where Miss Ainsley had gotten to. He’d been disappointed that she’d had no interest in horseback riding with him, and apparently no interest in learning either. But she’d denied him her company politely, and seemingly without an agenda, that he could find no reason to be sore about it.
Touring the house, was she? Of course, it was possible that she remembered little of her own family’s home, or maybe it had always been the inn, that Benedict House must appear a palace to her with it’s endless passageways and corridors, and more rooms than a household of one hundred could properly utilize.
Poking his head into the library, drawing room, billiards room, and several others offered no sighting of Miss Ainsley. He had no specific reason to seek her out, but that he’d been plagued of late with the memory of the sensation of her fingers on his chest. He'd allowed her space for several days, her mumbled apology the morning after having been, he’d been convinced, akin to swallowing sand. Truth be told, it was in her best interests for him to have avoided her as well. He’d relived the moment so many times, had played out so many different endings in his head—none of which saw him actually leaving her that night—that he was certain being in her company before he’d managed to dispel the idea that he was a fool for not having swept her up in his arms and kissed her senseless would have seen him doing just that.
Now was safe. Daylight. Fully Clothed.
She would be safe from his desire, he was sure.
He wouldn’t have guessed that the third floor would have called her attention, being that it housed only rarely used smaller chambers. Zach himself hadn’t ventured upstairs since he was in short pants, but as he’d not found her upon the second floor, he was soon glancing inside different rooms on the top floor.
He almost missed her, even as he’d come upon the slightly ajar door and assumed she must be within, he immediately saw no sign of her and was already turning his shoulders away when he spotted the top of her head. Just the crown of her head, the contrast of her shiny mahogany locks against the linen covering the bed caught his notice. She was sitting on the floor on the far side of the bed, he mused.
Curiously, Zach strode around the bed, his footsteps muffled upon the faded rug.
Emma sat with her legs tucked neatly beneath her, scores of papers floating all around her, her head bent as she perused the paper she held. In her right hand, holding one side of the paper, she held also a length of pink ribbon.
His tall Hessians were surely the first thing she saw as he came around the bed, alerting her to his presence. She gasped and lifted her eyes. Having discerned she was surrounded and engrossed in dozens of letters, he was about to tease her that she seemed to have accumulated an astonishing amount of mail in the short time she’d been here.
But the face she turned up to him—shimmering eyes shuttered by spiky wet lashes, red-stained nose, and sad little turn of her lips—brought a frown instead of a grin. Zach stepped fully in front of her, her gaze following him.
“Miss Ainsley? Dear God, what has happened? Have these letters delivered bad news?”
She nodded, and dropped her chin to her chest, holding out one hand to indicate the mass of correspondence. “Oh, it’s just awful,” she said and wept.
Zach went down onto his haunches, but she did not raise her tear-stained face to him. He thought the letters must be from a man, the script he briefly noticed being neither delicate nor pretty. His lip curled, presuming some undeserving blighter had just broken her heart.
“Now, now, Miss Ainsley,” he soothed awkwardly. “No man is worth this painful weeping —and certainly not one who doesn’t realize how rare a prize—"
Her expression changed, in the midst of his cajoling words, going rather blank so that he stopped speaking. Perhaps, in her mind, some chap was worth these tears.
But no. An uneasy giggle came next. And then the giggle evolved into a cheery if nervous laugh. She covered her mouth and her laughter with one hand, waving the other which still held a letter, flapping the paper rather jerkily. Above the hand covering her mouth, her watery blue eyes danced with merriment.
Finally, she apprised him, “These aren’t mine.” While Zach returned her gaze blankly, it was another few seconds before she settled her laughter and explained, “I was snooping and came across these old letters in the writing desk.” She pulled the hand away from her face and indicated the small piece of furniture in his periphery.
He blew out a relieved burst of laughter and sat on the floor, beneath the window, putting his back against the wall. She was beautiful when she cried. Honestly, the redness seemed only to highlight the perfect blue of her eyes, making them brighter, more intense, so very animated. And that smile—surely she might ask for stars from the sky or water from a desert, and there would likely be many a man eager to delight her with at least an effort, if this smile be the reward.
“But then why do you cry?” He wondered, even as he was now so entranced by that gorgeous smile.
Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head again, taking in all the letters covering her skirt a
nd the carpet and the floor. “This man, George Fiske, is writing these notes to a woman named Caralyn—” the blue eyes found his again. “Do you know a Caralyn Withers? Is she of the Lindsey family? A relative? A servant? She must have stayed here or lived here. But something awful must have happened, for she does not give George the love he craves—though he seems to believe she wants to—and then these letters were just left here, scattered. I cannot believe she would have willingly abandoned all this love.”
“Hmm,” Zach said, giving it some thought, still more mesmerized by the shimmering blue of her eyes. “There is no Caralyn in our family, not that I’m aware. And Withers is unfamiliar to me, as well.”
“These were written in 1774.”
“I see,” he said, though it helped to define this Caralyn not at all. “That would make it even more difficult to identify this person. I don’t even think any of the staff here now would have been here then.”
“More than forty years ago,” she said. “But listen to this.” She moved her hands over the papers on the floor, sifting through the letters until she found what she was looking for and read to him. “I saw you last eve at Winthrops’ less than fascinating dinner. You knew I watched you. My darling, you couldn’t not have known. Surely your neck tingled with awareness. Surely your breath caught with wonder. Our hearts speak, even when we do not. But why, oh why, do you persist and resist? You said it yourself: the heart wants what the heart wants. Yet, you allow yourself not the chance to explore this. And still, your kiss lingers in my memory and, indeed, my own broken heart.”
Zach thought it sounded like a lot of drivel, and immediately thought he understood the entire circumstance: a lady allowed herself to be kissed by besotted man, then regretted the decision, and could not rid herself of the man’s attention. How very... tedious. Save for the fascination instilled within Miss Ainsley at such heartfelt nonsense. He chose not to rain on her charming, lovesick parade and refrained from offering his own opinion on the matter.
She plucked another letter from the haphazard pile, and read, “’Tis mercy, ‘tis shame, ‘tis joy and unbearable grief, to have that moment—‘twas only a moment I now see—to share love, and give love, and be loved. And then you were gone.” She looked up at Zach again, heaved a breathy and tortured sigh. “Oh, poor Mr. Fiske. And this part—” she consulted the paper again. “I had a dream and it was you.” Her hand fluttered over her heart.
Zach grinned, convinced more than not of the swain’s unrequited love, wondering indeed if the uncompromising Miss Caralyn only thought the correspondence tiresome and overdone.
On the other hand, he considered Miss Ainsley’s very keen reaction, and alleged with a lazy grin and no small amount of amused charity, “You are a romantic, Miss Ainsley.” It was so unnatural to him. Women of his acquaintance wasted precious little time on such fancy. Love was only a lucky by-product of a solid union, not at all the sole reason for being. He couldn’t say he was aware of or acquainted with any couple who was truly in love. Several friends might have initially lusted after their arranged wives, some might have genuine affection even, but no man, and rarely a woman in today’s day and age squandered their dreams on so nebulous a notion. Certainly not with such tortuous ardor as the glib Mr. Fiske.
Miss Ainsley did not take exception to his accusation, only grinned and admitted, “I daresay you’d be hard-pressed to find a woman who might read these words, and not wish them to have been penned by her own object of affection.” Her tone hinted at practicality, as if she only stated fact, and was not imbued what any sense of drama and gave no hint if this be her wish as well. She added, with a shrug of her slim shoulders, “Whether or not she might admit to this would be an entirely different matter altogether.”
“You have a very tender heart, Miss Ainsley.” Despite your constant stubbornness in regard to all things having to do with me. He was filled with a sudden desire to know so much about her. He recognized the wonder of this, as he could not ever recall another person in whose presence he had been, which had found him craving...more. More knowledge, more time, more of her.
He shook himself, chastising himself internally. Good Lord, but ol’ Mr. Fiske’s covetous words must have left an impression indeed. Yet, he found himself asking of her, “Have you dreams of receiving words such as these from your beloved, Miss Ainsley?”
He’d employed a cautious tone, to give no indication of his own thoughts, but felt some censure had crept in there anyway, as evidenced by her evasive reply of, “Dreams are not for everyone.”
Her entire manner changed then. With a suddenly tightened jaw, she began to gather up the many letters, putting them in some sort of order, as she did not simply collect them haphazardly, but consulted each paper and inserted it into the stack in her hands with some care, and at different places. “I am sorry for having snooped, for having made a mess.”
Zach felt like a heel. “Miss Ainsley.”
“And how shameful of me, to not have even inquired of your ride or—”
“Miss Ainsley.”
“Or, my heavens, where is Bethany? How silly and irresponsible of me, to have forgotten—oh, but is she with Mrs. Conklin?”
Firmly now, “Miss Ainsley.” And he reached forward and stilled her fretful hands with the touch of his own. “Bethany is napping.”
She looked up and nodded, her cheeks now a becoming shade of pink. She moved not at all now so that Zach retrieved the last few letters near his own legs and neatened them before handing them to her.
“Thank you.”
“Have you no dreams, Miss Ainsley?” The want of this answer seemed to override everything else, including her sudden embarrassment, and his desire to kick himself for having caused it. At her blank stare, he clarified, “When you were a child, surely you must have dreamed of...something?”
“I didn’t have any dreams,” she supposed in a small voice. “Dreams of what?”
“Dreams of what you hoped your life to be.”
A small grin, one without humor, curved her beautiful lips. “Perhaps you are not aware, my lord, that people from the lower classes don’t really have accessible dreams. I had no dreams, my lord. I just imagined I’d get taller and older and hoped the Smythes lived forever so that I might always have the roof and the work.”
“That reeks of a lack of imagination,” he said, a frown hovering, “of which I’m somehow convinced you are not wanting.”
She only shrugged, her lips rolled inward, as if to prevent herself from speaking.
Zach chewed on this, determining that she surely must be omitting something. No young girl, possessing the heart she obviously did, spent all her youth on such practical matters, giving no quarter to more personal desires.
When he only stared at her, seeking truth in the depths of her blue eyes, she allowed her own brows to crunch as she asked, “What did you dream of as a child? Did you dream to become a member of parliament?
“No, I thought for sure I was going to be a beekeeper when I grew up.”
“A beekeeper?” She laughed, despite herself. “Like bumblebees?”
He shook his head. “Like honey bees.” He offered a disarming grin. “When I was very young, my tutor, Mr. Fellows, had an ardent interest in beekeeping, and was allowed to do so right here, at Benedict House. We bred and cared for our own bees, made our own honey, it was all very exciting and...worthy, it seemed.” He tapped his hand against his thigh, pursed his lips with some fond remembrance, and said, “My parents were indulgent, and truthfully, I cannot recall that they ever tried to dissuade me.”
“So...what happened to the dream?”
“Life, I suppose. I went off to Eton and Cambridge, and Mr. Fellows moved onto to another lucky young man, who perhaps now laments that he wears a wig and listens all day to political blowhards hurling polite ridicule at each other while so few agendas are truly ever met, rather than ducking under the beekeeper’s helmet and stepping into the beautiful buzz of thousands of honey bees.”
“But why don’t you have—keep? Is that the word—bees now? You’ve the means, and—oh, does it take up so very much time? You are gone often and regularly.” But even this, she waved off, “But you’ve servants that you might train to help.”
“I’ve thought about it. Seems to lose some of its allure, if I’m only to be paying a person to do the job—and that would be all it was to them, a chore, labor.”
“You’re a fairly clever man,” she said, “so I must admit to some surprise that you wrestle with this. My lord, parliament is not in session all year round. So find the perfect person, perhaps among the staff, who shares the passion. And when you’re available, you enjoy all the benefits that come with doing something that you love, and when you are otherwise engaged, you have faith that whomever you’ve entrusted with the chore will give it the same passion as you.”
“Having no dreams, what might you know of all the benefits that come with doing something that you love?” He wondered, not at all immune to the charm of Emma Ainsley, who declared she hadn’t her own dreams but now smartly demanded he make his come true.
“I have Bethany, so everyday I have something I love.”
He allowed this to be her response, even as they both knew it was unrelated, and mused, “But now your circumstance has changed. You will ever have a roof over your head and needn’t worry about any occupation—despite your claims to the contrary—so have you the luxury now of dreams?”
Mildly, with a ponderous tone, she said to him, “I shall have to give some thought to that and return an answer to you at another time.”
Zach raised a brow to this and was sorry that she stood now and returned the tidy pack of letters to the drawer. He sensed about her some inner debate, to leave or to stay, to speak or to not, and he reluctantly aided this, by offering her escape, “I will see you at dinner this evening.”
If I Loved You (Regency Rogues: Redemption Book 2) Page 10