She blinked, and her gaze grew more serious. She considered him for a heartbeat, then her lips curved, and she dipped her head in acceptance and said, “My name is Honor, and I make you free of it—and before you ask, yes, you are absolutely bound to act honorably in any and all dealings with me.”
He laughed and inclined his head in acknowledgment, but there was a thread of steel underlying her words that he didn’t miss and of which he took due note.
He retained his hold on her hand, and together, they hobbled to the nearest log and sat to remove their skates. That done, he gave her his arm, and she took it, and side by side, they made their slow way up the increasingly icy rise and on over the village green to the lane.
He paused on the narrow verge. His impulse was to see her to her door—quite aside from all else, prolonging his time with her—but he didn’t dare; if Webster were to look out or, worse, open the door…
Instead, he trained his best smile on her face and allowed her arm to slide from his. “I believe we part ways here.” He tipped his head northward. “My cottage is that way.”
She smiled and inclined her head to him. “In that case, I’ll bid you a pleasant evening…Callum.”
He kept his smile in place and fervently hoped she wouldn’t speak his name in her uncle’s hearing.
With nods of farewell, they turned from each other and walked away.
As he strode up the lane, Callum couldn’t escape the reflection that Honor would almost certainly regard what he was presently doing—concealing his identity so he could slide under her uncle’s very nose in pursuit of the source of the three coins that had brought them all to Little Moseley—as the very antithesis of “honorable.”
The following afternoon, Honor stepped out of Bilson’s Butchers, pleased to have secured three nice lamb collops, of which her uncle was particularly fond. She and the professor had a dinner to attend that evening, but she would cook the collops and leave them in a pot for the next day.
She settled her purchases in her basket, wedging the collops between the vegetables she’d bought at Mountjoy’s Store, and was about to start back to the cottage when the sound of firm footsteps approaching had her glancing up the lane.
Callum was striding toward her, his face set in an abstracted frown.
Honor recognized the expression—it was one her uncle often wore—and knew Callum’s near scowl wasn’t directed at her. Indeed, she doubted he’d even noticed her.
Then his gaze drifted her way, and he saw her. His face lit, the scowl banished by a spontaneous smile of delight.
Honor felt her heart flutter; he really was a handsome devil, and when he smiled like that…
When he reacted like that to the mere sight of her…
She tried to tell her heart not to be stupid; she was too old to be dazzled by a smile.
Yet she was smiling delightedly in reply as she nodded and said, “Good afternoon, Callum. I imagine you’ve been studying the history books at Fulsom Hall.”
“Indeed, I have.” Still smiling, he halted beside her and reached for her basket. “Here—let me help you with that.”
She quashed an impulse to protest that the basket wasn’t heavy and, instead, relinquished it readily. He waved her forward and, when she stepped out, fell in beside her. “Have you discovered anything?” she asked.
“So far, nothing but teasing allusions. However, there are quite a few tomes that have sections on local history, so I haven’t yet given up hope.” He looked ahead. “As I said to the others, perseverance is a requirement in searches such as this.”
There were times he sounded remarkably like her uncle, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. Instead, she asked, “So where are you away to, with such a determined stride?”
She was charmed to see him lightly blushing. He cast her a sheepish look. “I’m afraid I got so caught up in my search that I missed luncheon. I’m on my way to the Arms to rectify the situation.”
She laughed and surrendered to what was plainly inevitable. “You remind me of my uncle—that’s just the sort of thing he does when his thirst for knowledge gets the better of him.”
Callum looked ahead. “Yes, well—it’s probably a ubiquitous male habit, forgetting the time when in pursuit of a goal.”
The skies were gray and had been threatening snow, but thus far, the clouds had held off. Luckily, the wind had fallen; although icy, the air was still. Callum shortened his stride and reduced his pace to an amble, the better to prolong the time in which he could bask in the simple joy of Honor’s presence.
They rounded the slight curve in the lane and drew level with the village green; the snow blanket of yesterday had melted slightly, and patches of winter-brown grass showed through.
The Cockspur Arms lay just ahead when they came upon two older ladies walking in the opposite direction.
Both ladies fixed their gazes on Callum and Honor. A swift glance at Honor’s face showed her smiling in recognition.
He would have preferred not to pause, but the two ladies halted and waited, and Honor veered in their direction.
Obediently—having no other choice—he halted with Honor before the older ladies.
“Good afternoon, Miss Webster.” The older of the pair, a haughty, black-eyed lady—a grande dame of the ton if Callum had ever seen one—smiled regally on Honor, then shifted her gaze to Callum and arched an inquiring brow.
“Lady Osbaldestone.” Still smiling and relaxed, Honor bobbed, then nodded to the second lady. “Mrs. Colebatch.” Honor gestured to Callum. “This is Mr. Callum Harris, another visitor to the village with an interest in history.” As if sensing Callum’s sudden alarm, Honor threw him an encouraging glance. “Mr. Harris is helping the search party organize themselves as well as assisting by trawling through the available history books for any mention of Roman sites in the neighborhood.”
“Is he, indeed?” Lady Osbaldestone intoned, her gaze steady on Callum’s face.
Instinctively, he increased the charm in his smile, but he’d recognized her name—she was, indeed, a grande dame—and he knew enough to be quietly terrified. He bowed to both ladies. “Ladies, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Lady Osbaldestone is the grandmother of Jamie, George, Lottie, Melissa, and Mandy and lives at Hartington Manor,” Honor explained. “Mrs. Colebatch is Reverend Colebatch’s wife.”
The children had referred to their grandmother as “Grandmama”; Callum had had no idea he’d walked into the orbit of the redoubtable Lady Osbaldestone. Had he known she lived in Little Moseley, he would have given the village a much wider berth.
He had to work to keep his mask of relaxed bonhomie in place while Mrs. Colebatch questioned him as to whether he’d gleaned anything useful from his searches, and feeling somewhat on his mettle, he found himself describing the vague hints and incidental comments he’d come across that, taken together, implied a Roman settlement of some sort in the general locality of the village.
“I see.” Mrs. Colebatch sounded genuinely enthused.
Callum slid a glance at Lady Osbaldestone; she was watching him closely, studying his face. He found her unwavering black gaze distinctly disconcerting; he couldn’t tell if she’d even heard his words. “I can’t as yet be certain, of course”—he looked back at Mrs. Colebatch, by far the less threatening of the pair—“but I hope to find corroborating evidence in other histories, and with luck, one will give me some clue as to the actual location of the settlement.”
Therese listened as Honor asked a further question, and Callum Harris responded, growing more animated and passionate the deeper he fell into his subject.
There was genuine commitment there—sincere dedication toward locating the source of the recently discovered coins.
The only problem was that she couldn’t place the man before her as a Harris. She knew the family well, and to a man, they were dark and stocky. Indeed, from Callum’s jawline and the way his hair framed the long planes of his face, she would
swear he was a Goodrich. One of the Goodriches of North Yorkshire. Now she thought of it, she recalled mention of a Callum Goodrich—one of the Guisborough branch of the family, if she was remembering correctly. What had that mention been about? It hadn’t been that long ago.
She fought to keep her eyes from narrowing; there was no sense in tipping him off. But she continued to observe closely and took especial notice of the way he and Honor interacted.
He was, she had to admit, a handsome rogue, especially when in the throes of expounding on his pet subject. Unsurprising, perhaps, that Honor was caught in his web.
Therese returned her gaze to Callum and wondered if he was trapped, reciprocally, in Honor’s.
Therese watched and listened and elected to say nothing at this stage. Although, naturally, she waxed cynical about the motives of a gentleman who was not who he claimed to be, she nevertheless trusted the evidence of her eyes and her ability to discern true connection between a couple.
Given all that, she needed to think before taking any action.
As Callum reached the end of his exposition, a gust of icy wind whistled down the lane, bringing all four of them to an abrupt awareness of the time and the worsening weather.
Honor shifted. “I must get back—my uncle will wonder where I am.”
Callum blessed the impulse that had prompted him to take her basket. He raised it slightly, in excuse to the older ladies, then waved Honor on. “I’ll walk with you.”
To his immense relief, Lady Osbaldestone inclined her head in gracious dismissal. “Indeed, and we must be on our way to Mountjoy’s.”
Mrs. Colebatch wished Callum luck in his search, then reached out and lightly squeezed Honor’s arm. “Her ladyship and I will look forward to seeing you and the professor at dinner this evening, my dear.”
Callum knew a moment of sheer panic as he half bowed to the older ladies. “It’s been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, your ladyship. Ma’am.” Then Honor smiled and nodded to the reverend’s wife and Lady Osbaldestone, and the older ladies walked on, leaving Callum to swallow his trepidation and escort Honor briskly along.
Therese waved Henrietta Colebatch into Mountjoy’s Store, then paused on the stoop to peer back down the lane. In the distance, just before the lane curved in front of the church, she could just make out the bright-blue splash of Honor Webster’s pelisse.
Of Callum Harris, there was no sign. Therese scanned the scene, but the only likely explanation was that he’d gone into the Cockspur Arms. Perhaps he was meeting his crew of searchers there?
Regardless, she felt it was telling that Harris—or whoever he was—hadn’t seen Honor all the way to her door. She recognized his type, the stratum of society from which he hailed; he would have been brought up better than that. “Then again, perhaps he’s simply not yet ready to face her uncle.”
That, she had to admit, was a possibility. She hadn’t missed the flare of alarm in Callum’s blue eyes over the news that she and Henrietta Colebatch would be meeting Honor’s uncle that evening, which supported the notion that Callum wasn’t yet ready to meet Honor’s guardian.
“Hmm.” Facing forward, Therese entered the shop.
The door clicked shut behind her—just as her busy mind found the right connections in her capacious memory. She halted. “Of course!” she muttered. “The Devonshire Harrises.” The branch of the family that possessed a daughter who had married into the Guisborough Goodriches; Harris was Callum Goodrich’s mother’s family name.
Having completed her purchases, Henrietta had been walking toward Therese and had heard her. “Oh? Do you know the family?”
Therese smiled intently. “Indeed, I do. Quite an old family,” she added, to allay Henrietta’s curiosity. “Now, my dear, I rather think we had better hurry back. The weather’s closing in.”
Henrietta was only too ready to hurry out of the shop and back down the lane.
Therese, taller and with a longer stride, easily kept pace, all the while wondering why Callum Harris Goodrich was deliberately using only half his name.
Chapter 5
Therese doubted that even she could have planned events better. By that evening, when Professor Webster and his niece joined Therese, Mrs. Woolsey, Major and Mrs. Swindon, and the Colebatches in the vicarage’s sitting room, Therese was ready to subtly probe the substance of Honor Webster’s life.
Before she interfered with anyone’s destiny, she always did her best to glean every last detail of their hopes and dreams.
Matchmaking was not a superficial task nor one to be undertaken lightly.
Therese bided her time while Honor and the professor were introduced to Mrs. Woolsey and Major and Mrs. Swindon, whom they hadn’t previously met. She waited a trifle longer, until the company had settled on the sofas and in the armchairs and the three gentlemen had fallen into a discussion of the changes the major had noted during the Swindons’ recent trip to the capital, before turning to Honor, seated in the corner of the sofa beside the armchair Therese had claimed, and airily remarking, “I noticed you and Mr. Harris on the ice yesterday afternoon. You both seemed to be enjoying yourselves.”
Ermintrude Woolsey, Sally Swindon, and Henrietta Colebatch had all been at the lake and witnessed the performance. They looked at Honor with unfeigned interest.
Honor blushed and glanced at her hands, loosely clasped in her lap. “Mr. Harris proved to be an accomplished skater.”
“As are you, my dear,” Therese remarked. “It was refreshing to see the pair of you indulging in such simple pleasure—you transparently enjoyed the interlude.”
Honor looked up, a smile touching her lips. “I did, although to be truthful, I hadn’t skated in ages and feared that I had forgotten how, but as Callum—Mr. Harris—predicted, the knack came back to me the instant I stood on the ice.”
Therese smiled encouragingly. “Is there some reason you’ve avoided skating recently?”
“Sadly, there’s no good skating pond at Oxford, and the river rarely freezes sufficiently these days, so…” Honor lightly shrugged.
Therese frowned. “So your parents live in Oxford as well?”
“No—they live outside, close to Banbury. That’s where their house is, and I learned to skate there, on the village pond.”
“But surely you visit your parents—for instance, over Christmas? The distance between Oxford and Banbury isn’t great, after all.”
Honor dipped her head in agreement. “We—Uncle Hildebrand and I—will be going there for Christmas.” She glanced at her uncle, but he was absorbed in the conversation now raging between the reverend and the major, and she continued, “But for much of the year, Uncle Hildebrand requires my active support, so I spend most of my days with him in Oxford.”
Allowing her puzzlement to show, Therese shifted to regard Honor more directly. “How did that come about? You’ll forgive the question, my dear, but it is passing strange to discover a young lady acting as a professor’s amanuensis.”
Honor inclined her head in acknowledgment.
When she paused, clearly marshaling her words, Therese shot a look at their three avid listeners and mentally blessed their sense in keeping their lips shut, even though they, as much as she, wanted to know more.
Eventually, Honor said, “My uncle…parted from his previous assistant on rather bad terms. After that, he didn’t trust anyone to work alongside him—helping with his research and so on. But he got in such a muddle—he’s really not good at keeping to any sort of schedule or timetable—that my father, who is my uncle’s older brother and another professor, although in a different field, suggested that it would benefit all involved if I became Uncle Hildebrand’s assistant.”
“I see.” Therese could read between the lines. She knew academic salaries weren’t large. After a second, she ventured, “I take it you have several brothers and sisters.”
Honor nodded. “Yes. Six.” A fond smile lit her face.
And that, Therese thought, was the crux of Honor
’s story. She had left home to take the position with her uncle to ease the financial burden on her parents.
With that much clear, Therese pressed on. “Do you find your uncle’s work personally fascinating—truly engrossing?”
Honor’s lips twisted, half grimace, half self-deprecatory smile. “Well…” She shot a glance at her uncle—one both affectionate and yet clear-eyed. He was still engaged with the other men. She drew breath and, lowering her voice, confessed, “To be perfectly candid, fully half my time goes in keeping Uncle Hildebrand in line, and that is more irritating and aggravating than anything else. And while assisting with his work is more interesting, getting every last detail correct—as one must in academic work—is a constant challenge, one which requires obtaining frequent and ongoing guidance from him, and extracting pertinent and timely facts from Uncle Hildebrand has never been an easy task.”
Therese sat back. “I can well imagine.” She rapidly revisited what she’d thus far learned. Honor Webster wasn’t her uncle’s amanuensis because such a position satisfied her hopes and dreams. Indeed, if Therese was reading the situation correctly, Honor’s position with her uncle was effectively quashing—at the very least stifling—her hopes and dreams.
Of course, Therese still had to confirm what Honor’s hopes and dreams actually were.
Deciding to risk a direct approach, Therese fixed Honor with a level look and asked, “If Fate offered you romance and a chance to marry and have a family of your own, while simultaneously satisfying your family’s and uncle’s needs, would you seize it?”
Honor blinked. Then, slowly, she turned her head and looked at Therese as if seeing her clearly for the first time. She hesitated, then lightly frowned and said, “Yes, of course. But—”
“Such things happen, you know.” Sally Swindon, seated beside Honor, could hold back no longer; she leaned forward and patted Honor’s knee. “Why, just last Christmas, we had Horace’s niece, Faith, to stay, and the dear girl was quite convinced she’d left all chance of marrying—well, of a marriage she would wish to have—behind her, but here in Little Moseley, she found her sweetheart. They’re expecting their first child, Therese—did I mention it?”
Lady Osbaldestone’s Plum Puddings: Lady Osbaldestone’s Christmas Chronicles Volume 3 Page 8