“You should know better than that, Mr. Eastwood. I do not have to resort to chasing chickens.”
“Amy,” Mama whispered.
Amy gave her an incredulous look. Why ever was Mr. Eastwood allowed to be unkind when Amy could not return the favor?
They continued in silence for a moment before Mama struck a conversation with Mr. Eastwood about the various trees in Coniston. Amy listened—not by choice—until they finally neared the cottage.
As the thatched roof peeked through the thick, orange leaves, Amy was struck again with the quaintness of the little house. The garden was a respectable size, enclosed with a short stone wall and a small, wooden gate. Beech trees towered around the cottage, mixing colors of sharp green and lemon yellow, while red and pink dahlias grew alongside the cream-colored walls.
A weak brooklet trickled in the front of the cottage with two bridges—one, a small, wooden curved crossing, and the other, large enough for carriages to pass on. Thick bracken grew alongside the creek bed, dipping long, reddish-brown fronds into the lazy water, as if testing the warmth of the creek before diving in for a lengthy swim.
The sight was a delicious feast for the eyes each time Amy viewed it, though she was loath to dote on anything in relation to Mr. Eastwood.
They crossed over the small bridge, their footsteps padding against the creaking wood, then approached the gate hanging on one hinge. Mr. Eastwood paused to examine it, pointing at a wayward nail sticking from the base of it.
“Is this the culprit who behaved so heinously toward you, Miss Paxton?”
Mama placed her hand to her mouth, no doubt hiding another amused grin.
Amy, however, did not appreciate the gentleman making light of her dress being torn. It would take her a good two hours to ensure the hole had been sewn correctly to avoid any notice of there being a tear in it at all.
She raised her chin. “Indeed, it is. If only it would have been taken care of before we settled here.”
She ignored another whispered warning from Mother. It was not necessary. Mr. Eastwood did not appear to have heard her slight anyway.
“Well, it shan’t take me long to fix this, as well as the hinge. If I may but allow myself into the stables for a few tools?”
Mother’s eyes widened. “Oh, you hardly need permission on your own property, but are you…”
Mama was too polite to finish her words. Amy, however…
“Are you to mend the gate yourself?” she asked.
She’d truly thought he’d been jesting before about being handy with a hammer and nails.
He stood from his inspection with amusement. “Does this come as a surprise to you after witnessing me with that chicken?”
He certainly had a valid point. Still, she was sure any gentleman she knew would hire someone else to do this type of manual labor.
“So, if I may begin?” he asked with an expectant look.
“Oh, of course. Of course.” Mama motioned him forward. “And thank you so much for your kindness, sir.”
“Not at all.”
He walked past them both, and Amy took a step back to avoid any accidental touch. The earthy scent of his cologne wafted under her nose, but she waved it aside. She’d had enough of the scent on their walk. That frustratingly tantalizing smell.
She followed Mama up the rest of the small pathway toward the cottage.
“I think we ought to invite him for tea after he fixes the gate,” Mama said as they approached the door. “It is the least we could do for him.”
“The least we could do?” Amy asked, ensuring her voice was as quiet as possible. She’d had enough of being overheard by the gentleman. “Mama, he is mending something that should have already been mended!”
“Hush, Amy!” Mama whispered, pausing at the front of the door with a stern look. “I don’t see why you are so set to despise the gentleman. It is so unlike you and not at all becoming. He has been more than amenable. You know he did not have to offer this cottage to us, or his help.”
Amy pulled a face. “Yes, yes, I know. But he is just so disagreeable. I cannot help but dislike the man.”
“If you ask me, he is not the one being disagreeable.”
Amy looked to her mother in dismay, though she spoke the truth. Amy was being terrible.
Mother’s stern look softened. “Now, I wish you to invite him to tea as he sees to his task.”
“Why must I do so?” Amy checked her tone, ensuring Mr. Eastwood had not yet emerged from the stables. “It was your idea!”
“Amy.”
Amy frowned. “Very well, but I shall not be joining you for tea then.”
“Yes, you will.”
“No, I will not. I will—”
Mama shushed her as footsteps sounded, and they faced Mr. Eastwood, who now had a leather satchel and tools in hand. He gave them a smile, though it was tainted with a hint of uncertainty—no doubt due to Mama’s innocent grin and Amy’s recurrent frown.
“Go, Amy,” Mama whispered as he turned away from them.
“No!” she whispered with vehemence.
“Yes.”
Her word was firm, final, and she slipped into the house and closed the door before Amy could sneak inside, too.
With a stifled sigh of frustration, she turned toward the gate. Mr. Eastwood averted another odd look then dropped the satchel to the floor and hunched down to examine its contents.
Amy hesitated. She could simply return inside and inform Mama that Mr. Eastwood had declined their invitation. But Mama would undoubtedly see past her lies. She was as stubborn as Amy and would not relent until she received what she wished.
Begrudgingly, Amy trudged across the grass back to Mr. Eastwood’s side.
He didn’t look up as he pulled a hammer from the satchel. “Come to inspect my work, have you?”
Her eyes swept over his back as he turned. When had he removed his jacket? That waistcoat of his was doing wonderful things to his broad shoulders.
She blinked away the traitorous thought. “Well, after seeing how you handle chickens, I thought I might come to tell you that perhaps you’re better off hiring someone else to do this work.”
To her great surprise, the man chuckled. He maintained his actions, holding the gate closer so the hinge lined up alongside the wooden post near the stone wall.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were only so vicious in your comments while your parents were nearby. I can see now how wrong I was.”
Her brow twitched, her anger drooping. Vicious? She’d never been described as vicious in her life. Perhaps her comment had been a little harsh, but he had deserved it.
Her logic was as weak as the feeble stream trickling in the nearby brooklet.
“My mother wished to invite you to tea once you are finished here.” There, that wasn’t cruel, was it? That wasn’t vicious.
He continued with his work, hammering a few nails before pausing to roll up his sleeves. “Thank you, I would enjoy that. Though, you needn’t have informed me that your mother extended the invitation. I am well aware you would never offer such a thing.”
She released a frustrated breath. Even when she said her words kindly, they were still taken offensively. Ah, well. She supposed there were people who would just never be happy with anything.
But was she not supposed to be ignoring him? Reminding herself of her resolve, she turned to leave, only to stop as he hammered into the post once more.
The angular muscles in his forearm flexed with each strike of his tool, and she moved her head to the side to obtain a better angle.
He stopped abruptly, catching her stare with a pursed brow. “What is it? Am I doing something wrong?”
Amy blinked, straightening her posture with deep breaths, though heat crept toward her cheeks in an instant. “No, I…I was wondering if you often mend broken items for your tenants.”
Now, that was quick thinking on her part.
He gave her a look of suspicion then retrieved another na
il. For a moment, she thought he might not respond. “If you must know, I have hired help before and still do on occasion. But sometimes, it is far easier—far quicker—to do the work myself.”
“And how did you come by learning such a task?” she asked, if only to distract herself. What with his forearms out for all the world to see, she could focus on very little else.
“Mr. Rutledge taught me.” His answer was brief, as if he didn’t wish to speak on the topic.
The husband of the woman they met in town had taught him? Now how had that come about? And why? She recalled his words from town, how she did not understand his familial situation. What could he have meant?
Before she could ask anything else, the door of the cottage creaked open behind them, and Hugh stepped into the warmth of the early autumn afternoon.
“So the dreaded gate will be fixed, I see,” Hugh said with a grin, coming down the pathway and rubbing his hands together. “I must thank you, sir, as I’ve heard my sister complain of little else since we’ve arrived.”
“I have not,” she refuted with a wary glance at Mr. Eastwood. That was just what she needed—her brother giving more fodder which Mr. Eastwood would use to embarrass her further.
“Come now, Amy. You always have something to fuss about.”
Mr. Eastwood straightened, and both he and Hugh looked to Amy for an introduction.
With a sigh, she relented. “Hugh, this is Mr. Eastwood, our landlord. Mr. Eastwood, my charming brother, Mr. Hugh Paxton.”
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Hugh said. “I understand you are the gentleman who is responsible for preventing our stay at the Black Bull.”
Yet another Mr. Eastwood admirer. Apparently, this list was never-ending.
“It would appear so.”
“Lovely place to game. Not so lovely a place to sleep.”
“No, indeed, Mr. Paxton.”
“Please, call me Hugh. I’m not mature enough to desire my father’s name quite yet.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Amy mumbled.
Hugh chuckled, wrapping his arm around Amy’s shoulder in a light embrace. “My sister. Never one to keep her opinion to herself.”
“I noticed.”
Mr. Eastwood’s eyes flicked between Amy and Hugh, and Amy thought she caught a hint of amusement in them.
Of course he would be amused. He had someone else to join in his mocking her.
“Well, do not let us stop your work, Mr. Eastwood,” Hugh said. “I’m certain my sister was enjoying her observation of you.”
Chapter Six
Amy’s eyes widened. She glanced to Mr. Eastwood, who turned too slowly for her not to see his amusement over Hugh’s words.
“Hugh,” she mouthed out as Mr. Eastwood knelt before the gate with his back toward them.
He merely gave an innocent shrug, though his wicked grin spoke measures to his intent. He motioned to Mr. Eastwood with a nod. “Go on,” he mouthed next.
She shook her head.
“You promised.”
With sinking realization, Amy knew the time had come for their agreement to begin. But then, how could she explain to him that this man was certainly not in the running for a potential husband?
With a glance to Mr. Eastwood, whose back still faced them, she shook her head fiercely. “Not with this man. I refuse, Hugh. He is the most disagreeable gentleman I have ever beheld.”
Confusion wrinkled his brow. Perhaps it was too much for him to have understood all of that without a sound. With a muffled sigh, she linked her arm through his.
“Do excuse us for a moment, Mr. Eastwood.”
“Of course.”
His eyes lingered on them for a moment before Amy fairly dragged Hugh across the garden.
“Amy, what the devil—”
“Shh!”
“We had an agreement to—”
She shushed him again, and this time, he kept quiet. Once they were far enough away, Amy whirled to face him with a vehement whisper. “I am aware of our agreement, brother, and that you are to help me find a husband. But I refuse to begin with Mr. Eastwood. That man…” She paused, peering over her shoulder at Mr. Eastwood’s flexed arm as he hammered into the post once again, “will never be my husband.”
“Heavens, Amy. I thought Mama was in jest about your resentment of him. You really do hold a grudge, don’t you?”
“That is beyond the point.”
He chuckled. “Very well. Although I would encourage you to pursue the man—he has wealth, after all. But I know of your desire to marry for love.” He pulled a disinterested face. “At any rate, as we discussed earlier, you may choose whom to pursue, and I will help you. However, I must advise against your mistreatment of Mr. Eastwood either way.”
Amy pulled back, ready to protest when he continued with a hurried glance at Mr. Eastwood.
“I have heard from both our parents now about the verbal contests between you and Mr. Eastwood. If the man—who is the foremost gentleman in Coniston, I believe—finds you disagreeable, you can be sure that the rest of the Lake District will be aware of your rude behavior before the end of this week.”
Looking past her indignation over having a third person call her “disagreeable,” Amy released a sigh. Disappointingly, Hugh was right. She couldn’t risk having such a reputation in a new town. Not when she was hoping to find a match.
How she had not considered such a downside to her unkindness was beyond her. This was yet further proof that she, Amy Paxton, made poor decisions. Very poor decisions, indeed.
Still, she pouted at the thought of being kind to Mr. Eastwood. “Why do gentlemen feel it necessary to divulge every flaw a woman might have?”
“Why do women feel it necessary to have such shareable flaws?”
She reached out, swatting his arm for his chauvinistic views, but he merely chuckled.
“Just think of it as practice,” Hugh suggested. “Even if you don’t consider Mr. Eastwood a viable option, he is a gentleman. And you do need practice curbing your tongue.”
She sniffed with derision.
“So will you agree to be kind to your Mr. Eastwood?”
“He is not my Mr. Eastwood. But I will be kind if I must.”
“You must. Because I command you to do so.”
With another swat of his arm—and another chuckle from Hugh—Amy sighed in surrender.
There were times she simply could not bear her brother.
Especially when he was right.
William tested the gate’s movement again, swinging it back and forth as his eyes wandered again to Miss Paxton and her brother. Their muffled argument had drifted toward him, though he’d been unable to comprehend a single word. He had noted Miss Paxton swat her brother’s arm a number of times, though, no doubt due to a smart comment he’d made. Apparently, mockery was a shared trait of the Paxton siblings.
William pulled his eyes away from them. He’d hate to have Miss Paxton think he was eavesdropping again. Although, that afternoon had certainly been an accident.
He’d spotted the Paxtons from Mrs. Rutledge’s window and departed swiftly to inquire after their stay at the cottage thus far. Little did he know he’d happen upon Miss Paxton criticizing his estates and his ability as a landlord.
He smiled to himself as he put away his tools. He was quite satisfied with the blush that had spread swiftly across Miss Paxton’s cheeks at being discovered in her beratement of him.
At least the woman had some form of a conscience.
“Heavens, are you finished already?” Mrs. Paxton approached, motioning to the gate. “You certainly made quick work of that.”
William eyed his handiwork with a gratified nod. Mr. Rutledge would be proud of that quick and easy fix. He’d taught William everything he knew, until Mr. Rutledge’s hands could no longer grasp a tool. “Yes, it was a straightforward task, fortunately. I don’t know how it managed to slip past my inspection earlier. I do apologize.”
Mrs.
Paxton waved an easy hand before her. “Nonsense. All it cost was a little snag of fabric.” She leaned closer. “And as much as my daughter has lamented said tear, she will have no trouble stitching it up. She merely enjoys to suffer loudly at times, you see.”
She winked, producing a genuine smile from William. He’d never heard a woman speak in such a way about her daughter. Not that she was criticizing her, but she did not boast of Miss Paxton’s many talents, as was typical of many of the mothers with whom he’d come in contact.
“Are you ready for tea, sir?”
William nodded, returning the tools to the stables before making his way back to the side of the house where the entire Paxton family had assembled around the white, iron wrought tea table.
“Do join us, Mr. Eastwood,” Mr. Paxton said, waving toward the empty seat remaining between Miss Paxton and her brother.
“Thank you.” William pulled out the chair, iron scraping against the stone of the sitting area. He sidled in between the brother and sister, noting the subtle shift of Miss Paxton away from him. That was fine with him. The less he had to smell the lavender scent of her blonde curls blowing on the breeze in his direction, the better.
“My sister was just saying how grateful she is for your service today.” Hugh leaned back on the chair beside William, propping his elbow on one armrest. “Weren’t you, Amy?”
William readied himself for the biting comment in return. Would it be, “Yes, congratulations on doing the job you should have done before we arrived” or “I could have done it better myself”?
Miss Paxton looked to Hugh before proceeding with a lowered gaze. “Indeed, I was.”
William’s eyes darted toward her, narrowing faster than he’d flung the hen at her two days prior. “Were you?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as incredulous to them as it did to him.
Miss Paxton raised her cup to her lips, but when Hugh cleared his throat, she paused, swallowing hard. “Yes, I was. I am very grateful, Mr. Eastwood.” She grimaced, as if the tea had scalded her tongue. “Now I shall only be required to stitch one dress instead of the countless others I might have torn.”
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 6