The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  William arrived back at Birchwick, shrugging out of his damp great coat with the help of the footman.

  “A few letters have arrived for you, sir,” the young man said. “Shall I fetch them for you?”

  “I can retrieve them. Thank you, Henry.”

  The footman nodded then departed with the great coat in hand.

  William walked to the silver tray resting on a small table nearby, pushing away all thought of Miss Paxton and her prying questions.

  She was just like every other impertinent visitor to Coniston and just like every gossip in town. He should’ve known to expect her questions.

  But he wasn’t going to think about her now. Nor about his response to her questioning.

  He retrieved the letters, shuffling through matters of business before settling on a correspondence in his mother’s script. Setting the others aside for later, William broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, the paper crinkling loudly against the high ceilings of the front hall.

  My dear William,

  It has only been a little over a month since we left Coniston, yet it seems a lifetime since we saw you last. We have kept busy, as you’ve suggested, and as a result, we have fallen in love with Cornwall and the sea. We’ve toured a working copper mine, as well as a charming lighthouse, though the name escapes my memory now. I’m certain I wouldn’t even be able to spell it should I recall it anyway.

  At any rate, as much as we have enjoyed our time here, we feel a pull to come home.

  William sighed, shaking his head. He knew his parents wouldn’t be able to keep away for very long. He missed them. A great deal, in fact. But the moment they returned, Father would no doubt question every change William had made to each of the estates—still indoctrinated to do what Grandfather desired of him.

  But at least Father was not a tyrant. If William explained his reasoning, Father would understand.

  William continued reading the letter.

  Now, William. I can feel your angst from nearly four hundred miles away. Worry not. We shan’t return home just yet.

  “Thank goodness,” he whispered to himself.

  Instead, we are to go to London. As much as we love Cornwall, I feel your father needs more of a distraction. Seeing the Thames and Vauxhall Gardens will be sure to provide him such, as he has not been to Town for many, many years. And, as you know, I have never been there myself.

  Yet another thing for which they had Grandfather to thank.

  I do hope you are well, as I have not received a letter from you yet. I will blame it on the post, though I have an inkling that you are responsible. Worry not. I’m certain you are busy with the estates.

  We received word from Charity this morning that she is enjoying her time in London. (Of course we would delight in seeing her there.) You know how proud we are of your decision to be with her. It will do wonders for our familial relationships and will heal many wounds. You always do what is best for us.

  As much as I’m certain she is enjoying her time in London, I know she must be missing you.

  William winced. He’d been neglectful to both of the women in his life, completely consumed with matters of the estates. He needed to rectify that.

  Of course, his letters to Charity would need to be accomplished in a covert manner, just like her letters were delivered to him. Mrs. Winslow wouldn’t approve of their correspondence, as that would lead people to assume an official engagement was now between them. Since Charity was in London at her mother’s wish to ensure Charity truly did want to marry William, they needed Mrs. Winslow to believe they took her request seriously.

  Your father’s spirits are improving daily. People often ask whom we mourn for, and though Mr. Eastwood is always gracious enough to respond, I believe it pains him each time he must do so. You and I will never understand the sorrow he feels in his own father’s passing, but I pray you will try, as I continue to do so daily. All we must do is show patience and compassion—something your grandfather never could do.

  Now, I think I shall end this letter before I must retrieve another sheet. Do take care, son. We speak often of our love for you, and our desire to see you happily settled.

  Until then, I bid you farewell.

  With love, your Mama

  William refolded the letter, sliding it into his waistcoat pocket and climbing the stairs to his study. He would not put it off any longer. He would write to his parents and to Charity—if only to inform them that he was still alive and well.

  Or to alleviate the curdling in his stomach.

  How could he have been so heartless? Charity had written to him twice already, detailing the happenings of her day—balls, shopping, meeting new people. But never a mention of another gentleman.

  He hadn’t worried a great deal over her finding someone else in Town. She’d loved William since they were children. But of course she would need the same reassurance from him.

  He’d been at a loss as to what to say in return, so he’d laid her letters aside and moved on with his progress with the cottage. Clearly, he was stupid.

  He entered his study, sitting down behind the large desk and pulling out his quill and ink.

  Dear Charity,

  He paused. Such words seemed rather intimate written on the page. But he supposed if he was intent on marrying the girl, such an opening would suffice.

  I trust you are enjoying your time in London. Your letters…

  He pulled up his quill. What had she written about?

  He shuffled around spare correspondences and loose pieces of paper on the desk before slouching forward with a sigh.

  Perhaps he hadn’t kept them.

  He shook his head and continued the letter.

  Your letters detailing the city were quite entertaining. Such a different life than the one we lead here, to be sure.

  I’m sure you will receive word soon that my parents will be arriving in London shortly. Mother has expressed her desire to see you. I, of course, wish to, as well. But as you well know, my estates were left in a dismal manner. This is the reasoning behind my lack of correspondence, for which I beg your forgiveness, as I have spent my time doing little else.

  The cottage was completed just last week. The manor will be next, and then I shall move on to Birchwick, where I shall make the grounds less stilted. Father is sure to disapprove at first, but all will be well in the end. At least, that is what I hope.

  As for other matters, life has remained the same in Coniston. Still the same gossips, still the same simple life—with no one here to distract me from my thoughts of you and our ambition to wed.

  A charming grin and a pair of shining blue eyes flashed in his mind’s eye—as well as a pair of long legs clearly visible through a soaked-through dress.

  He frowned, trying to push the image aside, but Miss Paxton continued to force her way into his thoughts—and the embarrassment he’d felt over being discovered in her room.

  Of course, all discomfort fled at her mention of Charity. He’d known at once Miss Cox was the culprit behind such information—as per usual. The woman feasted on gossip and information about other people’s lives like a weasel to a vole. Had she also told Miss Paxton how Grandfather had not only ruined his own family’s life, but also the life of each member of the Winslow family?

  Would Miss Paxton think less of him for coming from such a family?

  Of course, her opinion hardly mattered. He was merely at wit’s end with everyone in town discussing his life—his past and his future—as if they had some right to it. That was the main reason he’d kept his relationship with Charity quiet from Miss Paxton.

  All of Coniston seemed to know everything about him. Why did this visitor require the same?

  Then again, the regret in Miss Paxton’s eyes, the hesitance in her expression as she’d asked him her questions, had hardly seemed like she was searching for gossip. She could have been making conversation, or perhaps she was attempting to set the matter straight between him and Charity to know if Mi
ss Paxton might pursue…

  He squeezed his eyes closed with a firm shake of his head. No. He would not travel down that road.

  Opening his eyes, he peered down at the paper, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. But all he could see was the large, black spot of ink feeding through the parchment in wild veins. It must have dropped as he’d thought of Miss Paxton—all while writing a letter to Charity, the woman he had to marry.

  The woman he was fortunate enough to marry.

  With a sigh of frustration, he dropped his quill and rubbed his hands across his face.

  What the devil was wrong with him?

  Chapter Eleven

  William would no longer go to the cottage. At least not while the Paxtons stayed there. He’d already hired Mr. Smith to fix any repairs needed. Short of the Paxtons inviting him over for a brief visit, he would avoid being there at all costs. That was what was best for Charity, Miss Paxton—and his own state of mind.

  Now all he needed to do was take a different route to town. The main road placed him far too close to the cottage for comfort.

  A few days had passed since Miss Paxton had discovered him in her bedroom. Though the mortification had long fled, his determination to forget the appealing way in which she stood before him—her sodden yet shapely form he hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off of—was still fresh.

  As such, when the cottage’s thatched roof came into view, and laughter and conversation soon followed from outside of the small house, William lowered his head, reminding himself to not even offer a glance toward them.

  But when a laugh he’d never heard before sounded out above the rest, light and lilting, he knew at once whom it belonged to because it was just like her smile. It illuminated the very air around her.

  What was she doing to be laughing so heartily? Not that it mattered, of course. He cared more about what Charity was doing in London. Would she be eating luncheon now? Or shopping for a new gown?

  He traveled along the road to where more of the cottage was visible, and movements appeared in the corner of his eye. A flash of a Pomona green dress. Blonde curls bouncing back and forth. No doubt a dazzling grin to accompany both.

  Thoughts of Charity dissipated, and his will weakened as his desire to see Miss Paxton—just this once—won out.

  He regretted his decision in an instant as his heart pushed against his chest with heavy thuds. Miss Paxton stood in the clear opening of the garden away from the house and hedges, playing Battledore and Shuttlecock with Hugh.

  William watched with a raised brow as she continually hit back the shuttlecock strike after strike, laughing joyously while reaching her racket out time and time again with success. Where had this girl been at Birchwick? Rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, she clearly excelled at the sport—and she was one of the prettiest girls he’d ever laid eyes on.

  A pain shot through his chest. How could he think such a thing? Of course, Charity was beautiful, too, just in a different way. And was he not allowed to appreciate another woman when Charity herself was in London, no doubt admiring hundreds of gentlemen she found more handsome than William?

  Indeed, that was the very reason she was in London—to ensure she loved no gentleman like she did William.

  Even with his reassuring words, an uneasiness slid throughout him, coiling at the bottom of his chest, ready to strike without notice.

  “Mr. Eastwood!”

  His stomach hardened at Mrs. Paxton’s voice. When had his horse stopped moving? He raised a hand in greeting to Mr. Paxton and his wife, who he hadn’t noticed seated at the garden table near the house.

  “You will join us, won’t you?” Mrs. Paxton offered.

  William skirted a glance toward Miss Paxton. The shuttlecock sent from Hugh flew past her, her racket frozen in the air. With her free hand, she smoothed out her dress and blonde ringlets, though a few stray curls still draped down the length of her neck, fluttering against her skin in the cool autumn breeze.

  No, joining them would not be wise. “Thank you for the invitation, but I wouldn’t wish to impose. At any rate, I’ve a few letters to post in town this morning.”

  Letters to Mama and Charity, in fact.

  Mrs. Paxton pressed on. “Oh, but you would not be an imposition, sir. I do hope you will reconsider.”

  The correspondences pressed heavily against his chest, but how could he, in good conscience as a gentleman, refuse the offer twice?

  With a reluctant nod, he directed his horse toward the cottage, chewing the inside of his cheek as the hooves clopped rhythmically against the bridge.

  He dismounted then approached their table, eyes flicking toward Hugh and Miss Paxton, who had since begun to miss every strike of the shuttlecock.

  Was she playing poorly now on purpose, or was it nerves?

  “We are so happy to see you again, Mr. Eastwood,” Mrs. Paxton said when he reached them. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I fear I must decline. My letters are of business, so they must be posted without too much delay.”

  Business. He obviously didn’t consider Charity and mother as “business.” He only said as much to avoid the inference that they were something more. Although, his marriage to the woman could possibly be thought of as a business matter in all that it would do to benefit their families and their pasts…but that hardly mattered now.

  “Well, we appreciate you taking time out of your busy schedule to speak with us for a moment. Do we not, Mr. Paxton?”

  “Absolutely.”

  William gave a polite nod, his eyes wandering casually across the grass toward the Paxton siblings. Miss Paxton was bent over, rummaging around in a large bracken, no doubt attempting to find a missing shuttlecock.

  “With the rain having finally departed, this weather is delightful.”

  William swiftly averted his eyes from Miss Paxton retrieving the shuttlecock, facing Mrs. Paxton instead. “I trust your windows fared well during the storm?”

  “Oh, they were perfect, sir. Thank you again.”

  Miss Paxton missed another hit, due to her moving slower than William’s mother ambling past shop windows.

  “I do hope this weather will last for a few days.” Mr. Paxton placed his cup of tea on the saucer. “We had the notion of renting a couple of boats to take out on the lake this morning, but it would appear that all of Coniston thought to do the same.”

  Mrs. Paxton nodded with a disappointed look. “Indeed. By the time we arrived this morning, all the boats had gone.” Hugh’s chuckling—no longer Miss Paxton’s—sailed toward them. “At least Hugh and Amy seem to be enjoying themselves.”

  William didn’t move his eyes from Mrs. Paxton’s. “I wish I would’ve known your dilemma earlier. I’ve plenty of boats of my own that I would be more than happy for you to use during your stay here.”

  Mrs. Paxton’s face brightened. “Oh, really? You are certain that would not be an inconvenience?”

  “Not for me, I assure you.”

  Only for Grandfather. He’d never allowed anyone to take out his boats, even his own family.

  “You’d find some way to break them, I’m sure of it,” he’d told each of them.

  William’s parents eventually stopped asking to use them. But William resorted to sneaking out for a nightly row every now and again.

  Now that the boats belonged to him, he would never hesitate to share them with others—not only to make Grandfather roll over in his grave, but to prove William was more of a gentleman than Grandfather ever was.

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Eastwood,” Mr. Paxton said. “Though I’m sure we will only accept such an offer if you agree to join us out on the lake when the time comes.”

  William feigned gratitude before looking away. There was no possible way he could agree to such a thing, boating with the Paxtons, particularly Miss Paxton. But there was no need to say as much now.

  “How fare the renovations of Corcliffe Manor?” Mr. Paxton asked ne
xt.

  Hugh approached the table, Miss Paxton trailing behind as she picked at the wooden frame of her racket.

  “We are still working to clean through the debris, but things are progressing rather nicely.”

  “Excellent,” Mr. Paxton responded.

  “Mr. Eastwood,” Hugh said, standing at his side, “do tell me you play Battledore and Shuttlecock.”

  Miss Paxton deposited her racket in the grass then moved to the opposite side of the table, sitting rather rigidly beside her father. Was she thinking about the last time she and William had seen each other? He certainly wasn’t.

  “I do. Though, I don’t claim expertise.”

  “A general knowledge will be just the thing.” He motioned to Miss Paxton. “My sister is abysmal at the sport, as I’m certain you’ve noticed. I’ve been trying to teach her for nigh on half an hour, and she still has not improved an ounce.”

  “Is that so?” William shifted his eyes around the family.

  Miss Paxton stared at her fingers in her lap, and their parents exchanged unreadable glances.

  Clearly, they had all seen Miss Paxton’s talent at the sport. What sort of game were they playing?

  Hugh continued. “It’s true. Then again, it comes as no surprise she has not improved with me as her teacher.” He lowered his voice, though everyone could still hear him. “She never was one to be taught by me. You, sir, on the other hand, will be the perfect instructor.”

  William gave a dry smile. Whatever this man’s intentions—whether he was trying to annoy Miss Paxton or draw her closer to William—William would not be a pawn any longer. “I doubt I would be able to instruct Miss Paxton on anything. At any rate, I haven’t the time.”