A Forgiving Heart

by Kasey Stockton

  They bid farewell, and Kate watched him leave from the front window before rejoining Emily, her mind clouding with concern.

  Emily let out a long-suffering sigh, placing her bookmark in her book and laying it on the windowsill. “What is the matter?”

  “I wonder if Mr. Evans appreciated being persuaded into an outing,” Kate said.

  “Into an enjoyable outing with friends and a picnic luncheon? You are right. That sounds terrible.”

  “When you say it like that, I feel conceited for thinking that he’d rather spend time with me alone.” Kate pulled her feet onto the chair and tucked them under her skirts.

  “Of course he would,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “You are courting. But the outing he originally proposed was not exactly proper.”

  Kate sighed, leaning back in her chair. “Indeed. I don’t know if I like courting. It almost seems like a waste of time. But I suppose there are no other ways of getting to know one another.”

  Emily brought a finger up as though she had an idea. “Other ways of getting to know one another? You could go riding together every morning and discuss the details of running your estates.”

  Kate decided not to gratify Emily with a response.

  “Oh Kate, don’t sulk. I am only teasing. It is true, though, is it not? That is how you and Sir Peter have become friends.”

  Kate blinked. “Yes, but that is just it. Peter is my friend. Someday he’ll become my brother. I want to get to know Mr. Evans with a different relationship in mind.”

  “But dear,” Emily said, scooting to the edge of her chair and tilting her face with a soft smile. “That is how the best relationships begin. You need a firm foundation, and friendship is the strongest.”

  Emily was happily married, so it stood to reason that she would know what she was saying. But that did not mean Kate had to agree fully. Every relationship was different, and while she appreciated and admired Peter, he was her friend, and would remain so. Wouldn’t he?

  It was time to speak about something different. “Have you written to Paul today?”

  “Yes,” Emily said, moving back into a comfortable position. “This morning.”

  The butler came to the door and asked if they were home for visitors. It took a quick second’s work to tidy themselves and move to the sofas positioned in the center of the room before Mrs. Smithson and her daughter, Miss Annie were announced. Kate requested a tea service and was pleased when Mrs. Smithson left Miss Annie to most of the conversation—after begging pardon for Miss Smithson’s absence, of course.

  “She had the most dreadful headache this morning and remained in bed,” Mrs. Smithson said by way of explanation. Her own black hair was littered with strands of silver, causing her to look like an older, more dignified version of her missing daughter.

  “Do convey our best wishes for a speedy recovery,” Emily said diplomatically.

  “I am so glad you’ve come to Larkfield,” Miss Annie interrupted, seemingly unconcerned about her sister’s headache. “Society here has been dreadfully dull, but I have a feeling it is about to become so much more interesting.”

  “It cannot have been that bad. The dinner party last night was exceedingly pleasant.”

  Miss Annie sighed dramatically. “Charades? Please. I was certain Mr. Evans was about to start up a game of hunt the slipper when he asked my sister to sing.”

  “Hunt the slipper is not so bad,” Emily said, biting back a smile.

  “If you are ten years old, perhaps not.”

  Kate could not help herself, and she laughed a little too loudly before using her tea to smother the unladylike sound. The twinkle in her eye was reciprocated in Miss Annie’s.

  “It must be something in the air. We’ve had to hunt our own slippers frequently since moving into Split Tree,” Emily said.

  “It is true,” Kate said with an air of resignation. “I have replaced both of our slippers once, and my cook’s, and still they continue to go missing. I am convinced we have ourselves a slipper thief.”

  “How strange,” Mrs. Smithson said. Her gaze betrayed her doubt.

  Kate and Emily were invited to return the call for tea the following week and Kate ended visiting hours with the comfort and promise of growing friendships.

  22

  Kate

  The vista was every bit as breathless as Mr. Evans had described it to be. Large rolling hills fanned out in every direction, dotted by homes and farmsteads, and bits of white and black here and there of sheep or cattle grazing. The only downfall to the glorious view was the overcast sky and threat of rain.

  Mr. Evans’s cook had outdone herself, and the picnic luncheon shared by the party left more than one of them with the desire for a quick afternoon nap. Peter and Mr. Balham were not among that set and decided to take a walk, in which they were accompanied by Emily and Miss Annie further up the hill and out of sight. Mr. Evans, Mr. Faile, Miss Smithson and Kate remained on the blankets overlooking the view.

  “Has anyone seen such a lovely view before? I really ought to sketch it,” Kate said, pulling out her book and a small case of charcoals.

  Miss Smithson eyed her but shrugged her dainty shoulder while Mr. Faile mumbled something incoherent under his breath. He was beginning to slouch, and it was apparent that within minutes the man would be asleep.

  “I should love to see what you can make of the view,” Mr. Evans said graciously, leaning back on his elbows and stretching his legs out before him.

  “I believe I will go on with Annie and the others,” Miss Smithson said suddenly, rising to her feet. She put a hand down to stop Mr. Evans, who had begun to rise as well. “I know the direction and they left less than five minutes ago. If I cannot catch up with them within ten, I will turn back.” Though she spoke in a tone that brooked no argument, Kate was a little surprised that Mr. Evans had not insisted on accompanying her. She herself took solitary walks when she was at Lytle’s School for Girls on a consistent basis, but an independent schoolteacher could not possibly be compared to a young gentlewoman.

  “Do you think it safe for her to go alone?” Kate asked as the woman walked away.

  “Oh yes, of course,” Mr. Evans responded without hesitation. “We have been coming to this place for years—she knows the way.”

  Uncertainty tugged at Kate, but she pushed it aside and focused on the sketchbook in her lap. She drew a few strokes for the distant hills before working her way down the paper, concentrating on her task while Mr. Evans chatted about his favorite London sights.

  He leaned forward and lifted a bottle of wine to refill his glass, but it came up empty. Rummaging through the basket, his mouth pressed into a firm line. He looked up, and his gaze trailed the distance around them before settling on Kate. “Servants are never around when one needs them,” he said, irritated. Rising, he pasted a pleasant smile over his irritation. “Probably gathering near the remaining food. I will return shortly.”

  The silence—punctuated by Mr. Faile’s deep, even breathing—was a blessed relief. Birds chirped from the high trees and distant laughing could faintly be heard from the group that had gone exploring. Taking to her paper, Kate focused on replicating the glorious scene before her, doing its majesty as much justice as she could manage.

  “They are insufficiently prepared,” Mr. Evans said, returning empty-handed, his expression tight. “Perhaps I should have checked the number of bottles myself, but I expected my servants to do an adequate job.”

  Kate shot him a small smile before focusing on her task. She did not wish to argue with the man, so she held her tongue, but he was being harder on his men than the situation called for. It was merely wine, and they had had plenty during their meal. But Kate had the odd circumstances of having lived as both a member of the working class and then moving up in the world. It was a truth she could acknowledge to herself that she likely wouldn’t see eye to eye with members of gentility at all times. She’d had experiences the likes of Mr. Evans would never understand, a wind
ow into the kitchens and the life of the maids. At Lytle’s, she had been friends with Mrs. James, her cook, and had spent an evening chatting with the housemaids on occasion.

  She could never do so now, but that didn’t erase her past experiences and how they colored her viewpoint. Mr. Evans’s ignorance, likewise, could be understood.

  Mr. Evans lowered himself beside her again, disturbing the peaceful setting with talk of the differences between London’s theater and its opera. He explained the merits of each but thought the opera had a much more refined audience, so it was slightly preferable to sitting in a room with all manner of ruffians. Kate wanted to laugh but quickly realized that Mr. Evans was not joking, so she swallowed her mirth in an awkward hiccup. Did one really notice who stood in the back of the theater when one was engrossed in the play? And even then, what did it matter who else was in attendance?

  “Perhaps I shall go to both of them one day, and then we may see if we share that opinion,” Kate finally said.

  Mr. Evans looked at her with a tilt to his head and a condescending smile. “I should love to take you.”

  Kate’s stomach flipped over, the butterflies in full force. Her pulse sped, but the longer he watched her, his gaze flicking to her lips, the less enjoyable the butterflies felt. But why? Should she not be satisfied by his attention? She tore her eyes away, focusing back on her sketch.

  “Are you planning to go to London at all?”

  “Not any time soon,” Kate said, unable to focus. She needed to shade the hillside, but prickles ran down her skin and she felt antsy—though at a loss to explain why. “I cannot now because of my mourning, and so many things could change before next year. I suppose it depends a little on Emily and Paul.”

  Mr. Evans nodded in understanding. A snort came from the next blanket and they both looked to Mr. Faile, who had succumbed to an even deeper sleep.

  “I leave on Monday for a fortnight in the city. If you find yourself going that direction, then I should love to take you to the theater.”

  “That is most kind, Mr. Evans,” Kate said. “But I feel I must wait for my mourning period to be over before I can venture that far into Society. I might have chosen to forgo proper mourning attire, but I ought to refrain from a trip to Town until the full three months has been observed.”

  Mr. Evans looked stormy. “I suppose that is true, but it seems unfair for you to continue to suffer at the hands of that brute.”

  Kate was startled by his vehemence. “I do not suffer, Mr. Evans. This mourning period is exactly what I’ve needed to help me adjust to my new life at Split Tree.”

  He did not look convinced, but he did not press her. The silence was only momentary before he dove into a discourse on the value of various hotel dining rooms and which one was best to reserve for a night after the theater.

  Kate half-listened as she shaded in her sketch, her mind wandering to the sheep dotting the hillside. She absentmindedly drew in a shepherd among the sheep and with the flick of her pencil gave him the distinct nose that her own father’s portrait portrayed in the corridor at Split Tree Manor. She was imagining the repositioning of that portrait to the parlor when her mind wandered to the study and what things of her father’s could potentially be found in that room.

  It was with these possibilities on her mind that she heard the high-pitched scream that suddenly pierced the air and caused a large black mark to dash across her page.

  Peter

  He knew it had come from somewhere below them, but precisely where was impossible to pinpoint. Peter’s hair had stood on the back of his neck for a quarter of a minute before the scream sounded, and his heart had sped in anticipation. Of course, he could not have foreseen the cold wash of fear, but even as he wondered who it was that screamed, something told him Kate was safe.

  Mr. Balham caught his eye and gestured toward the ladies, both white with fear. He jerked his head back down the hillside and Mr. Balham nodded slightly. “Let us return and locate the rest of our party,” he said gently, pushing Mrs. Nielsen and Miss Annie back the way they had just come.

  “Kate,” Mrs. Nielsen whispered in question.

  Mr. Balham nodded in understanding. “Let us find them before we panic.”

  He ushered the women away before Peter turned toward the edge of the nearby cliff and peered down. He winced at the image below him and made quick work of the steep downhill slope. If he had known he would be rescuing ladies from peril so often, he might not have left the military so readily. He reached the form lying on the bank of the cliff and recognized Miss Smithson’s black hair immediately.

  “Miss Smithson?” he asked, gently nudging her shoulder. His breath came out in one full puff when she stirred, relief coursing through him.

  “Sir Peter?”

  “Yes.” Peter knelt closer, helping her turn toward him. He was glad for his familiarity with wounds when he first saw the gash on her arm and was able to look her in the eye unflinching. The last thing he needed was to deal with another unconscious woman; his injured arm could not handle more stress. “It appears that you have fallen. Does it hurt anywhere, or may I help you to stand?”

  Her nose wrinkled in thought, and he waited for the panic to set in and the hysteria to come. She surprised him by nodding concisely, though her eyes remained wary. “I can stand.”

  With his arm around her waist, Peter helped Miss Smithson to sit. He untied his cravat and fastened it around her arm to slow the bleeding. “Can you walk back to the carriages?”

  “I will try.”

  Peter guided her to her feet and let her lean on him heavily as they made their way toward the path that would lead them through the hill and back toward the carriages.

  He keenly felt the vast difference in their heights as he helped Miss Smithson up the hill and toward the group. Servants were scurrying about, quickly cleaning up the remnants of the luncheon while Kate was throwing things into a small bag and Miss Annie was sobbing in Mrs. Nielsen’s arms. When she noticed her sister, Miss Annie squealed and ran the distance toward them, but Peter held out a staying hand to halt her.

  “Harriet! What happened?” Miss Annie said as her tear-stained cheeks glimmered in the light, her hands clutched tightly in front of her.

  Miss Smithson glanced around the group quickly before looking back to her sister, a stunned, uncertain look in her eyes. “I scratched my arm, and I should like to go home.”

  The men immediately moved into action and they were soon ensconced in carriages on the road home. Miss Annie had insisted on riding with her sister and Peter, while Mr. Balham took the last seat in their vehicle. Peter directed the coachman to drive straight to Dr. Styles’s home so he could take a look at Miss Smithson’s arm.

  Martin had not seemed too bothered by the series of events and had graciously led a worried Kate to the second carriage. Peter had watched him help her and Mrs. Nielsen inside before jumping in himself, followed by Mr. Faile, and he found that he resented his brother in that moment. Martin had done nothing useful in this crisis, much like the last time around.

  Peter fumed as he recalled that series of events. When the servant from Split Tree Manor had arrived that dreadfully rainy day to ask for all available men to assist in the search for their missing guest, Peter had sprung into familiar action, organizing his men and heading for the place that he deemed her most likely to have become lost. It had come as something of a surprise to him when he directed Martin to prepare to ride out and his brother had only looked at him blankly, as if he had been surprised by the notion that he would also go out and look.

  “The servants are searching,” he’d said. Peter had been so dumbfounded, he’d stared at his brother momentarily before taking off for his own horse.

  When he had returned later with the missing woman in his arms, his butler had been helpful in locating a footman to run to Split Tree Manor, call off the search, and collect the necessary items for both Mrs. Nielsen and Kate. It had been apparent to Peter at the time that Kate woul
d not only insist on staying at his home with her sick friend, but she would not leave Mrs. Nielsen’s side the entire time either.

  That was when he had directed a footman to carry the chaise longue to Mrs. Nielsen’s bedside, so Kate would have a place to rest. Martin had been just as useless then, and Peter had to smile at the recollection that Kate had believed Martin to be his master. Martin.

  The weaselly boy had grown into a somewhat better man, for he no longer felt the need to battle Peter on every single thing—now he only argued about half of the time instead. In truth, Peter hoped to have forged a closer relationship with Martin once their older brother—and largest wedge between them—had died. But alas, it was not to be.

  He faintly recognized feminine voices and realized that Miss Annie was asking him something. “I am sorry,” he said guiltily. “I was woolgathering.”

  “Can we not go any faster?” Miss Annie repeated. “My sister is looking quite pale.”

  “It is but a scratch,” Miss Smithson snapped. “I shall be fine. Quit your fretting.”

  Duly chastised, Miss Annie seemed to sink against the squabs.

  “You are certain you suffered no other injuries when you fell?” Mr. Balham asked softly.

  “Yes,” Miss Smithson whispered. “But I did not fall.”

  “What was that?” Mr. Balham asked, leaning forward on the rear-facing bench.

  Miss Smithson looked toward the window, her gaze on nothing in particular. “I was pushed.”

  23

  Kate

  Kate could not get her heart to calm down. She did not fully understand why, but she was anxious, restlessly pacing the front windows that lined the parlor, her gaze scanning the gravel drive outside. The events of the day replayed in her mind as she searched for the component that did not fit, the part that she was missing. Miss Smithson had seemed frightened almost, anxious and fretful. But why would a fall cause the woman fear? Kate was missing something; the details did not add up.