She nodded.
“And I assume hens fall into the same category as horses?”
Finally, her eyes pulled to his, fear replaced with a bright twinkling. “Oh, heavens, no. Hens are at the very top of my adoration.”
“Are they now?”
She opened her mouth to continue then paused, her brow wrinkling as if she regretted her confession. “That is to say, hens are fine enough creatures. I have no particular affinity for them. Having so would be quite unladylike, would it not?”
She looked ahead to where the others in the group still pushed forward, far enough away to not overhear their conversation. Was she seeking Hugh’s help again?
William stifled a sigh. Her brother must have told her not to mention her love of hens. As unconventional as it was, such an admiration was innocuous. And William would help her see just that.
“On the contrary. Why would admiring any of God’s creatures be considered unladylike, whether they be horses, hens, or hares?”
She peered up at him, as if studying to see if he was in earnest. Her eyes were a bright blue, made all the brighter when she bestowed upon him a warm smile.
His chest tightened, though from what, he couldn’t tell. He cleared his throat, looking ahead to the group who’d nearly reached the other side of the field.
“So tell me, Miss Paxton. How is it you know how to hold a hen so well?”
“Common sense, sir.”
He caught the teasing in her tone and clicked his tongue in feigned disapproval. “Mocking me again, even after asking for forgiveness? That hardly seems right.”
“I do apologize.” A faint dimple shone in her cheek. “The truth of the matter is, I had a few as pets.”
His brow raised. “Indeed?”
“Yes. I begged my parents, and I was ever so grateful they obliged.”
As William had suspected. She clearly received whatever she wished as a child. Although, if one appreciated what one was given—as Miss Paxton certainly appeared to do—there was nothing wrong with that, he supposed.
“Mind you, I did not know how to hold them in the beginning, and there may have been an accident or two similar to the disaster that occurred on your waistcoat.”
“And did you have names for these hens?”
“Oh, of course.”
“Go on then.”
She drew a deep breath, pausing for what appeared to be dramatic effect. “My favorites were Miss Hen, Miss Clucky, and…Hugh.”
“Hugh?” he chuckled.
“Believe you me, my brother was not pleased when I named a female chicken after him. Which, of course, was the reason I kept the name. My parents and I teased him mercilessly with it for years.”
William laughed again, and their eyes connected in shared humor. From the warmth of her gaze, a stirring occurred deep inside his chest, as if he’d just sipped warm tea on a cold, November day.
He pulled his gaze away, rubbing at his chest to dispel the discomfiting feeling. He’d never experienced anything like it before. Not even with Charity.
And that alone was cause for concern.
Amy reached the far end of the field with Mr. Eastwood only moments behind the rest of the party, slipping past the gate with a furtive glance at the gentleman as he held it open for her.
“Thank you,” she murmured, to which he replied with a touch to the brim of his hat.
Amy tried to talk down her fluttering heart, but she couldn’t. That walk across the field had been the highlight of her day, by far.
After his heartfelt apology, her anger had collapsed like a weakened blancmange, and she knew she needed to seek his forgiveness, too. Their conversation had then flowed naturally, and he’d even defended her appreciation of hens when she’d thought he’d scorn her. And when their eyes had connected…
She ducked her head to hide her smile. A spark had occurred between them, she was certain of it.
She only had one concern now. How could she ever go back to speaking with Mr. Fisher and Mr. Payne after having such a delightful time with Mr. Eastwood?
“What think you of the view, Miss Paxton?”
Amy blinked, surprised to find Miss Cox at her side. “Oh, it is marvelous, to be sure.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
In truth, Amy hadn’t even taken in the sight yet. She eyed the long fell, bare but for a few straggling grey stones and orange foliage at the bottom. It certainly was a unique sight, one to be admired.
Yet Amy could not get her eyes to obey as they instead admired Mr. Eastwood’s profile.
How stupid she’d been before to hold onto her pride, trying to convince herself that he was a terrible person. Clearly, she’d allowed her embarrassment to cloud her vision.
This gentleman would certainly move onto her list of “possible men to pursue.”
“He is charming, isn’t he?”
Amy had nearly forgotten Miss Cox remained by her side. “I’m sorry, of whom do you speak?”
She knew very well who.
“Mr. Eastwood, of course. Shame he’s been claimed by another, though.”
Amy’s heart sank back into the cold place in her chest where it normally resided. Miss Booth stood beside Mr. Eastwood, staring up at him with a smile. Of course. Amy had suspected it earlier. Miss Booth’s loyalty now made perfect sense.
“Well, I hope he and Miss Booth will be happy together,” she said.
This was silly of her to feel so disheartened. She’d liked the gentleman for what, a quarter of an hour?
Miss Cox twittered a soft laugh. “Oh, no, it is not Miss Booth who loves Mr. Eastwood. Miss Charity Winslow does.”
Miss Winslow? That was the name she hadn’t recognized with Miss Booth. “Oh, I’m afraid I don’t know Miss Winslow.”
“Of course not. She is in London for another few months.” She lowered her voice. Miss Cox, unlike Miss Booth, certainly didn’t have a problem sharing her knowledge of Mr. Eastwood. “Miss Winslow and Mr. Eastwood were the closest in our small group of friends as children, before Mr. Payne and Mr. Fisher went away to school. Miss Winslow wasn’t allowed on the property, either, but Mr. Eastwood would often sneak away to meet with her.”
Amy wasn’t sure what to do with this wealth of information handed to her so freely. Part of her wished to plug her ears, to respect Mr. Eastwood’s privacy. But then, Miss Cox’s knowledge was intriguing.
“No one was allowed on the property?” she asked.
“Oh, no. Not us children, at any rate. Parties were held years ago, but for more than half a decade, the Eastwoods did not host one gathering at Birchwick. Until today, that is.”
Amy’s confusion merely grew with each piece of information she received. Had his grandfather prevented the gatherings as he’d prevented Mr. Eastwood from walking, playing with children, or altering his estates? She could hardly imagine such control.
“At any rate,” Miss Cox continued, “we all suspect a formal engagement between Mr. Eastwood and Miss Winslow when she returns in December. I assume you’ll be long gone before the wedding.”
Amy brushed a soothing hand to her churning stomach. “No doubt.”
Amy looked back to Mr. Eastwood, who had since moved to speak with Mr. Jones. She should have maintained her early despising of the gentleman. It would have been far easier.
“Now, Miss Paxton,” Miss Cox said, linking her arm through hers and pulling her closer. “It is your turn to tell me what your brother is like. He is quite a charmer, is he not?”
Amy suppressed a sigh. She was often treated this way by women—befriended only so she might share more about her brother.
Even with Miss Cox’s less-than-sincere intentions, Amy was glad to have received the truth from the young woman. Now at least she knew not to pursue Mr. Eastwood, thereby avoiding future embarrassment.
Thank heavens she’d discovered the truth before she fell in too deep.
Chapter Ten
A few days later, Amy rushed through the back door
of the cottage, closing it behind her with a heavy sigh as she leaned against the wood. Thunder rumbled above, and rain pelted against the only window in the small corridor. A grey light caused by the clouds outside shone dimly across the dark, wooden flooring.
The moodiness reflected Amy’s feelings perfectly.
She blew out another breath, her chest rising and falling from her labored breathing. She should not have taken that last turn near Coniston Water. Of course she could not outrun a storm in the Lake District.
Pushing away from the door, she set off down the corridor, unbuttoning her spencer and sliding her sopping bonnet off of her wet, stringy hair. She’d have to change before speaking with Mama. If Amy was caught soaked through, she’d be forced to keep to her bed the rest of the day.
But she could not bear such a notion, especially after being confined in her speech while walking with Hugh, Mr. Fisher, and Miss Cox round the lake. All she’d done for an hour and a half was watch Hugh and Miss Cox flirt in front of her, all while Mr. Fisher spoke, yet again, of birds. At least Mr. Payne had not been there to claim an ability to shoot each one stone dead from the trees in which they perched.
She’d reminded herself constantly of her intentions—to find a way to be happy and to no longer be a burden on her parents—and still, the afternoon had been unbearable. She’d listened intently to Mr. Fisher and responded with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, just as Hugh had suggested, but she would have died to converse of something—anything—other than robins and geese and starlings.
At one point, she’d brought up chickens, but the man claimed a dislike for the “essentially flightless” animals. Needless to say, she’d kept her mouth closed fairly tight after that comment.
Inching up the stairs to avoid any creaking, Amy pushed aside the continuous thought that had been popping into her mind all afternoon like the ducks on Coniston Water, incessantly bobbing their heads in and out of the water.
It would do her no good to dwell on the fact that—although Mr. Fisher did not like hens, and Mr. Payne no doubt only enjoyed them as food—Mr. Eastwood did not take an issue with her favoring the animal. Would he…No. The man was soon to be engaged to another, for heaven’s sake. It didn’t matter what he thought or what he did, at all.
Managing to peel her gloves off one by one, Amy reached the top of the stairs and rounded the corner to her room. Deep in thought, she did not realize her door was left open until she stepped within the small space and discovered Mr. Eastwood himself standing in her room with his head halfway out her window in the rain.
“Mr. Eastwood?” She took a quick step back in surprise.
He started, bumping his head against the side of the window as he turned to see her.
“Blast!” He rubbed his head with his free hand while holding onto the window with the other.
She winced. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Mr. Eastwood straightened, water dripping from the strands of his hair down his temples. “That is quite all right. But I ought to be the one apologizing for being in your room.”
As the words were said aloud, the realization of the situation finally dawned on her. He was in her room. Why was he in her room?
Tools lay scattered about his feet, as well as a puddle of water from the drops of rain slipping in through the open window. He wore no jacket, his waistcoat was unbuttoned nearly halfway, and his cravat hung loosely around his neck. Water droplets slid down the curve of his throat, disappearing into the white cloth below.
Amy managed to tear her eyes away from the angles of his jaw only to be captured instead by his green eyes.
As they trailed down the length of her, she became keenly aware of her state. Dress clinging to her legs, hair plastered against her face, spencer hanging half-open with a white day dress beneath, no doubt revealing her chemise.
She clasped the spencer together and swallowed. Mr. Eastwood certainly did not care how she appeared. He no doubt only had eyes for Miss Winslow. And yet, Amy’s cheeks still burned.
“Yes, you are in my room. May I ask why?”
He stared at her legs for a moment longer before blinking and looking to the tools scattered around him. He dropped to the ground to place them in his satchel. “Forgive me. While at Birchwick Hall two days past, your mother mentioned that the windows did not close properly in a few of the rooms here. With so much rain today, and the temperature drop that is sure to happen this evening, I thought a little mending would be good.”
He stood, brushing his eyes over her again. “Mrs. Paxton assured me the rooms would be empty, including yours. I hadn’t any notion…”
His words trailed off as he shifted in place, and suddenly, a strange confidence boosted Amy’s spirits. Mr. Eastwood was embarrassed. So often, she’d been the one to make a fool of herself. Now Mr. Eastwood was the one to be caught in an awkward situation, and she wanted to prolong it, to make him stew with discomfort for just a moment more.
Were the situation not so compromising, she might have. Funny how kindness came naturally to her when she did not think the gentleman was out to solely embarrass her.
She took a step back. “That is a viable response, Mr. Eastwood. So I shall leave you to your mending once again.”
“No, please.” He stopped her, slinging the satchel over his shoulder and heading toward the door. “I have only now just finished. Besides”—he eyed her up and down—“you appear to need your room far more than I do.”
Just like that, her confidence dissipated. “I-I was caught in the rain during my walk, I’m afraid.”
He nodded. Was that a hint of amusement in those emerald depths?
“I was walking with Miss Cox, Mr. Fisher, and my brother but decided to take an extra few minutes to myself when they left. That is when the rain set in.”
Why did she feel the need to explain all of this to him? To prove she was not entirely reckless? Senseless? Foolish?
“I see.” Mr. Eastwood moved to the corridor, standing outside of her room. “I hope you had a pleasant time.”
“I did, thank you.”
He took another step back, flicking his eyes at her dress once more before nodding his head. “Well, good day, Miss Paxton.”
Hugh would have advised Amy to let the man leave, to focus instead on tomorrow when they would meet with Mr. Payne for a ride across the countryside.
But Hugh was not there, was he? “Thank you for fixing my window.”
Mr. Eastwood paused halfway down the corridor. “It was no trouble.”
“But it is most appreciated. I find it rather difficult to sleep with irregular sounds at night, and an inconstant dripping from the leaking window into my porcelain wash bowl was rather distracting.”
Was she truly speaking to this gentleman about her sleeping patterns? At least she didn’t need to impress him now, what with his impending engagement.
“I’m glad I could be of service.” He inched backward, buttoning his waistcoat.
He clearly wished to leave, and if Amy had any sense, she’d allow him to. But she was anxious for conversation about something other than Mr. Fisher’s birds and Hugh’s flirting with Miss Cox. And her tongue had a mind of its own. “Did Mr. Rutledge teach you how to mend windows, too?”
He stared at her for a moment, tipping his head in confusion.
“You told me he taught you how to fix the gate. I only assumed…”
“Ah, yes. He did. I’m surprised you remembered that.”
Heat crept up her neck, but she drew in deep, cold breaths to fight it back. She was simply being a friend for remembering such a fact about him.
He looked away. “Mr. Rutledge has always had difficulty dealing with pains in his hands. He couldn’t afford to hire help, so during my visits, he would teach me how to repair doors and windows, tables and hearths. Fortunately, I became more proficient than when I first started.”
Could this man be any more selfless? “They must be grateful for your help.”<
br />
“I assure you, I am more grateful for theirs.”
Theirs? In what way could the Rutledges, a kind but clearly poor couple, have helped Mr. Eastwood?
As much as she longed to know the answer, Amy knew from Miss Booth’s words that Mr. Eastwood valued his privacy, so she would not press him for more knowledge.
A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. “I do hope you and your family enjoyed yourselves at Birchwick.”
Warmth settled around her middle as Mr. Eastwood was next to prolong their conversation. “We did, thank you.”
“Good. I hope it helped you all to feel a little more at home during your stay in Coniston.”
How had she ever managed to overlook his kindness? No wonder everyone in town fawned over him.
And no wonder Miss Winslow was in love with him.
Her smile faltered.
Should she ask…No. She shouldn’t even consider it. But then, what if Miss Cox had stretched the truth? Surely Amy should validate the woman’s words before taking them as gospel.
“Yes, we feel much more at home. Especially with making so many new friends. Miss Booth. Miss Cox. They also told me of another young woman I would like to meet. Miss Winslow, I believe her name was.”
She watched him carefully, but he did not so much as flinch a muscle. “Indeed?”
His voice was flat. She really oughtn’t continue. But then, she needed to know. “Yes. I was told that you and Miss Winslow are—”
“Friends?” Mr. Eastwood interrupted. “Yes, since childhood.”
Amy’s lips parted. She didn’t know what to say. Miss Cox must have been lying. Why else would Mr. Eastwood say he and Miss Winslow were simply friends if they were truly in love with each other?
Unless, of course, he did not approve of her prying.
Oh, where the devil was Hugh when she needed him?
Anxious to return to their carefree conversation, Amy searched for something to change the subject, but Mr. Eastwood spoke instead, his tone short.
“Lovely to see you again, Miss Paxton. Good day.”
After a brief bow, he disappeared down the stairs, leaving Amy with regret that dampened her spirits more than even her sodden clothing did.
The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 10