“Just from the window of the train to Brading.”
He stepped over a fallen log, then held her hand to keep her steady as she followed. “There is your problem. You missed some of the very best parts.”
Clara smirked, and a twinkle lit her eyes. “Brading—the Lord’s personal garden—isn’t the best part?”
Grant smiled. “Of course it is, but there are others almost as glorious—the castle at Carisbrooke, Shanklin Chine, the Needles Lighthouse. Have you even been to the seaside?”
“No.”
He shook his head, making a tsking noise. “Such an oversight must be remedied immediately.”
Certainly if Clara Brightly gave it a chance, the Isle of Wight would work its magic.
Chapter Four
The following Sunday as Clara exited the church, she forced her gaze straight ahead instead of searching for Grant Mason. The man was confusing and unpredictable, and her feelings about him were the same. At the choir practice, he’d been arrogant to the point of rudeness. But his apology the next day seemed genuine, and though Clara reminded herself to be cautious, her instinct told her that he was a person to be trusted. After the visit with Mr. Herd, Grant had been outright friendly. She’d wanted to confide in him and enjoyed his company, but his invitation to see more of the island put her on guard. It seemed too much too fast. Why would he extend such an offer? Did he have an ulterior motive? They were only co-directors of a small choir, not friends precisely. Would Grant revert back to his earlier rudeness the next time she saw him? Was he irritated that she’d spent their entire walk complaining about being on the island? And why was it necessary to employ every bit of her self-control to keep from looking for him?
A motion caught the edge of her gaze, and Clara glanced up. The girl with the dark curls who’d left the church before choir practice stood on the grass with a group of children. When she caught Clara’s gaze, she waved shyly.
Clara hesitated for a moment, wondering if the girl were indeed waving at her. She glanced around but saw nobody nearby looking in the girl’s direction, so she crossed the churchyard toward her. When she arrived, Clara felt silly, not knowing what to say.
The girl smiled up at her, then looked down at the ground.
“Hello,” Clara said. “I think I saw you at Bible Study Wednesday evening.”
The girl nodded.
“My n-name is Clara Brightly. What’s yours?” Clara almost whirled and ran when she saw the other children watching. She was making a fool of herself. What must they be thinking? A fully grown woman stood before them, stammering like a nervous schoolgirl.
“Annie Warner.” She curtsied, tugging on her skirts.
“How do you do, Annie?” Clara smiled at her bouncing curls and rosy cheeks. “You left before choir practice began, didn’t you?”
Annie nodded, tucking her chin against her chest. “I don’t want to sing.”
Her voice was so quiet that Clara had to turn her head to hear. The girl’s shy words touched her heart. She knew exactly how it was to be that girl, too shy to join in with the others. She crouched down to the Annie’s level, catching the girl’s gaze and smiling. “You know, a choir has other jobs besides just singers. I was hoping to find a helper who will hold signs to remind the choir of the correct verse.”
Annie studied her for a moment. “Isn’t Mr. Mason your helper?”
Clara kept her face serious, though she wanted to grin at the bluntness of the question. “He is, but—”
“But he will be busy making certain you are all behaving,” Grant said from behind Clara.
She and Annie looked up.
“How do you do, Mr. Mason?” Annie curtseyed again.
Grant reached out a hand and lifted Clara to her feet. “What an excellent choice for an assistant, Miss Brightly,” he said. “Annie is just the person we need.”
His words sent an unfamiliar wiggling feeling through Clara’s middle. She smiled at Annie’s beaming face but for some reason couldn’t meet Grant’s gaze. She pulled away her hand. “We’ll see you at rehearsal on Wednesday, Annie?” Clara felt her insides squirm again. It felt strange to speak for herself and Grant, as if they were a couple.
Annie nodded.
Clara bid her farewell and walked toward where the Wickershams were speaking with Mrs. Mason. Grant fell into step beside her. She snuck a glance at him, but based on his calm expression, he didn’t appear to think it unusual to follow her around the churchyard.
“The weather is nice today, isn’t it?” he said, clasping his hands behind his back. “Warmer.”
Clara wore her shawl, and though there was a slight breeze, she wasn’t excessively uncomfortable, a rare occurrence over the past months. “It is very pleasant,” she agreed.
Grant smiled, closed his eyes, and tilted back his head, drawing in a deep breath. He peeked at her from one eye. “An ideal day to visit Carisbrooke Castle, if you would care to join me?”
Clara twisted at her fingers. Her confusing feelings regarding Mr. Mason left her both panicked and extremely bashful. She walked faster. “You told the vicar you are very b-busy this time of year,” she said.
Clara stopped beside Deborah, wishing she were fifteen years younger so she could hide behind the woman’s skirts. Her heart was racing.
“One is never too busy to take a Sunday afternoon ride to Carisbrooke in the springtime.”
“What a lovely idea,” Mrs. Mason said.
Deborah nodded in agreement. “Oh, yes.”
“For propriety’s sake and to prevent either of us from having an opportunity to speak, I will, of course, bring my mother.” Grant winked and put an arm around his mother’s shoulders with a squeeze.
Mrs. Mason swatted him with her fan. “Grant, Miss Brightly will think you’ve no manners at all.” But her smile revealed that she didn’t mind the teasing.
“Would you join us, Mr. and Mrs. Wickersham?” Grant asked.
“We would indeed, wouldn’t we, my dear?” Walter turned to his wife.
Deborah was studying Clara’s face, her brows raised as if making certain the plan was agreeable.
Clara nodded, feeling much more comfortable about the outing now that the party was expanded. She turned to Grant, fighting against a threatening blush. “A castle visit sounds delightful.”
***
Two hours later, after Sunday luncheon, the group set off in Mr. Mason’s landau. Due to the pleasant weather, both the front and back of the hood had been retracted to give a full view of the landscape.
The men sat facing the rear, and Clara watched the scenery pass from her seat between Mrs. Mason and Deborah. The unfamiliar trees bursting with blossoms, the fields of wildflowers, and the hedgerows were all beautiful, but it was a different beauty than she was used to. England was proper and manicured, whereas India was wild and unkempt. The birds sounded sweet; the little squirrels chattered. Taking an excursion without sepoy escorts to protect from bandits and tigers felt strange. But although England seemed tame, Clara didn’t feel secure. She was still a stranger, no matter how gracious her companions were. She still didn’t belong, and she still missed her home.
Mrs. Mason nudged her out of her ponderings with a bump of her elbow. “See that lane there?” She pointed off to the left. “It leads to Alverstone, where I grew up.”
Clara leaned forward and looked in the direction she indicated. “Oh, and how far away is Alverstone?”
“A mile or so. Not far. My family attended church in Brading before the church in Sandown was built.”
“Does your family still live there?” Clara asked.
Mrs. Mason nodded. “My brother’s son and his wife occupy the house now.”
While Deborah and Mrs. Mason chatted about the Mason’s extended family and the Sandown Parish, Clara looked back at the farmland, wondering what would grow in the newly plowed fields. As she watched the landscape pass, she felt rather than saw Mr. Mason’s gaze on her.
Her nerves buzzed, and she folded her hands to
gether, attempting to look calm and ignoring the sensation. After a long, uncomfortable moment, she glanced toward him and saw he was indeed watching her. The icy-blue color of his eyes always made his gaze seem intense, and she looked away quickly. His expression felt expectant, and she wasn’t certain how to react. Clara shifted, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.
When she finally got up the nerve to glance his way again, he was looking in the other direction. Allowing her gaze to linger a bit longer, she saw a white line around the base of his hairline, as if his hair had been recently cut. Against the white of his shirt, the skin of his face and neck were very tan. She wondered how anyone could possibly get tanned in a place with no sun.
Clara wondered what occupied Grant Mason’s days. He had mentioned being busy this time of year. Was he a member of a sporting club? Judging by his broad shoulders and lean body, she could imagine him playing cricket or perhaps polo. He certainly would cut a striking figure on horseback.
Grant glanced toward her, and she turned her gaze downward, realizing he’d caught her staring. A blush burst on her face at the thought that her expression may have given away her contemplations.
“How do you find the view, Miss Brightly?” Grant asked.
“Very beautiful,” she said.
“There is nowhere on earth more lovely than Brading Down in spring.” Deborah held up her palm toward the vista beyond.
“Hear hear,” Walter agreed.
“And just wait until the hawthorns bloom.” Mrs. Mason pressed her hands over her heart and sighed. “You’ll think yourself in paradise.”
Clara smiled at their enthusiasm. “So I’ve heard.”
Mrs. Mason elbowed Clara again. “You see that tree there—that grand sycamore?” She pointed forward along the road to an enormous tree with limbs that stretched wide from the trunk. “You remember that tree, don’t you, Grant?”
He shifted in the backward-facing seat, craning his neck to look ahead of the carriage, then turned back around. His expression had changed. Darkened. His brows were furrowed and eyes pensive. He appeared . . . sad. “I remember.”
Walter turned to get a view as well. “A majestic tree, to be sure.”
“Do tell us the story,” Deborah said.
Mrs. Mason’s gaze remained on the tree, and her expression was thoughtful. She smiled wistfully as if remembering something both pleasant and sorrowful. “Grant was very young, perhaps five or six. I do not quite remember his age exactly, but small enough that he fit between Bernard and myself in our little victoria carriage.” She leaned toward Clara. “Bernard was my late husband.”
Clara nodded her understanding.
Grant’s gaze flicked to his mother, then he turned back to watch the tree as the carriage approached.
“We were driving on a warm summer afternoon to Carisbrooke,” Mrs. Mason continued. “Your father did so love to visit the castle, didn’t he, Grant?”
Grant moved his head in a very slight nod.
“Just a bit farther ahead down the road, a wheel hit a loose stone, slid into a ditch, and cracked the axle in two.”
“Oh my,” Deborah said.
“You must have had quite a fright,” Walter said.
“Yes, well luckily, none of us were hurt, and neither were the horses.”
“Thank heavens,” Deborah muttered.
“We spread out a blanket in the shade to wait while the coachman went for help, and that little mishap led to one of the most pleasant days in memory.” She smiled, her eyes unfocused as if they were watching something far away. “We ate the picnic we’d prepared for the castle lawn, then Bernard and Grant climbed up into that tree like a pair of squirrels.”
“Or monkeys,” Clara said, imagining the young father and his boy laughing as they scampered up into the branches.
Mrs. Mason raised a finger. “Exactly like monkeys. Bless me, I thought my heart would beat clear out of my chest when I saw my darling little boy sitting up on a limb fifteen feet above the ground.”
“Bernard was a fine man,” Walter said. “And an excellent father.”
Grant turned back to face the group. He swallowed and cleared his throat. “He was at that.”
The choking in his voice brought tears to Clara’s eyes, and she blinked them away. In all this time, she’d been so occupied with her own grief that she hadn’t even considered the others had all lost family as well.
They rode in silence for a long while, and Clara wondered if the memories of her father would bring her pain or comfort when she returned home to India. She knew thoughts of him would be all around in the places they’d gone together, and she would miss him. But at the same time, she longed to be where he’d been, to remember. She felt very far away from him here.
At last, the castle came into view. Set high upon a hill, Carisbrooke was a medieval stone structure with a surrounding wall. The coachman stopped before the gatehouse, and Grant assisted the ladies from the carriage. The group walked up the pathway and stopped before the enormous stone entrance.
Clara looked up at the turrets on either side and the battlements above and was immediately reminded of the Red Fort in Delhi. This castle was much less ornate, and older—built for defense instead of beauty.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Walter said, coming up beside her.
“It looks like a castle from a fairy tale,” she said. “I half expect to find a sleeping princess inside or a medieval jousting tournament.”
She took Walter’s offered arm, and they walked through the archway, beneath the portcullis, and into the fortress.
“Now, my dear.” Walter motioned around them with his walking stick. “This site has been a refuge from invading armies for almost two thousand years, protecting island residents from the Vikings, Normans, Spanish, and most recently, the French. You can see the different building styles used over time—some medieval, some much older, and the chapel over there was built in the last century.” He led her around, pointing out various architectural differences. “And did you know this is where Charles I was imprisoned to await his execution?”
“I did not know,” Clara said. She’d, of course, studied European history but struggled to remember exactly who Charles I was and what he had done to deserve his fate.
As if hearing her thoughts, Walter launched into an explanation of the House of Stuart and the English Civil War.
“Walter, come now.” Deborah joined them, interrupting his discourse. “Clara doesn’t want to hear all that. We’ve come to enjoy ourselves, not listen to a lecture.” She took his arm and gave him a warm smile to soften her reprimand. “Join us on the lawn, dearest.” She led her husband away, turning back to give Clara a wink.
Clara smiled in return and followed across the courtyard to where the ladies had spread a blanket. Mrs. Mason sat beneath her parasol, taking out parcels of wrapped refreshments from a basket. Deborah joined her, tucking her skirts around her legs. Walter set down his walking stick and eased down next to his wife, unwrapping a bundle and biting into a finger sandwich.
Clara moved to join them, but a hand on her elbow stopped her.
“Perhaps you’d care to explore a bit more.” Grant raised his brows and smiled.
She wondered if he was just being polite or if he truly wished to walk about with her. “I’d like that.” She returned the smile and took his offered arm.
“She’s not seen the Norman keep.” Walter pointed across the castle lawn with his sandwich. “Or the gardens.”
Grant led Clara away from the others.
“Make sure you point out the rooms where Charles I attempted to escape.” Walter’s voice came from behind them.
Clara couldn’t help but smile at the man’s passion for the castle history, and she felt rather than heard Grant give a soft chuckle. They walked across the lawn, following along an ancient foundation that was now only a line of stones on the ground.
She glanced up and saw Grant watching her, then fumbled for something to say
to alleviate the fluttering feeling in her middle. “Your father brought you here often?”
Grant pressed his lips together and nodded. “He loved this castle.” A smile tugged at one side of his mouth. “And everything else about the island.”
“You miss him,” Clara said, her heart swelling with compassion, remembering the story his mother had told.
Grant raised his gaze to the top of the high walls. “That’s the strange thing about grief. The pain eases, sometimes you hardly feel it, but there are other times, when you don’t expect it, the intensity overwhelms you.”
His voice was low with a tightness that made Clara’s heart ache. She missed her own father so badly that there were times she didn’t think she’d survive the pain. “How old were you when he died?”
“Fifteen,” Grant said. He let out a breath, then turned toward her. “But I had my mother, of course. And men like Walter to act as father figures. I cannot imagine how it must have been for you to endure your father’s death alone.”
Clara’s throat clogged, and she tried to push away the tears stinging her eyes. But it was no use. She took Grant’s offered handkerchief and wiped her eyes.
“I’m sorry.” He stopped beside the remains of a crumbling old wall. “It wasn’t my intention to upset you.”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice. Her heart hurt. She thought of her father, of their friends back home, and she longed for India. Her ayah, Pari, had been more than a nursemaid; she was as close to a mother as Clara had known. Did Pari miss her? Had she gone on to care for a new family?
She pushed away the painful memories, knowing that indulging them would only make them grow, and her weeping would become unmanageable. “I—” She choked and cleared her voice, forcing herself to speak calmly. “I don’t mean to ruin our outing.”
Grant tapped beneath her chin, lifting her face. “Do not apologize.”
Her heart jumped at his touch. Swallowing hard, Clara closed her eyes and pushed out a calming breath. No more tears. She slipped her hand into the bend of Grant’s elbow and gave a little tug, forcing a smile. “Now then, where is the Norman keep?”
He watched her face for a moment, then turned to walk beside her. “Directly ahead.” He waved his hand toward what appeared to be the very oldest part of the castle. Stone steps led up to a roofless structure, and ivy grew over the old walls.
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