The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

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The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5) Page 13

by Deborah M. Hathaway


  He shouldn’t care, really. And yet…

  “I suppose one refreshing drink won’t hurt, though. I am exhausted, after all, from the exercise regime you have put me through.”

  His heart lifted as her eyes twinkled. “Lemonade or tea?”

  “Lemonade, please.”

  That would be far quicker than tea.

  Miss Paxton reached for the pitcher of lemonade, pouring a glass as William took a seat across from her. She extended the cup toward him, and though William was consciously careful as he retrieved it, his finger still brushed against hers. A pulse of energy shot up his arms, and he nearly dropped the glass in surprise, a splash or two falling onto his fingers.

  “My apologies,” Miss Paxton mumbled before sitting down across from him with a glass of her own.

  Silence pursued. William studied the cool, yellow liquid in his glass.

  A heaviness hung in the air between them, and he longed to lift it as he would a heavy cloak from overheated shoulders. But what could he say?

  Finally, he motioned to the rackets and shuttlecocks on the grass nearby. “May I ask how you became so proficient at the sport?”

  She swallowed her sip of lemonade. “Practice, I suppose. Hugh and I would play regularly as children. He would often cheat, so I made it a goal of mine to play so well that even if he did try to swindle me, I would still win.”

  William would have laughed at the idea, had his next question not perched at the tip of his tongue, ready to dive forward into the open air between them.

  Dare he ask it? After hearing what she’d just said, could he even help himself?

  “So if Hugh knows you play so well, and you know you play so well, why did you say nothing when your brother claimed you play poorly?”

  She pulled in her bottom lip, chewing it before responding. “I’m sorry, but I cannot say.”

  William’s stomach hardened to stone. He knew instinctively that the rate of control between Hugh and Miss Paxton was nowhere near that of the power Grandfather had over his family.

  But William had seen that same look of hesitance countless times—when he’d asked his parents why they didn’t just move into the cottage or manor where they clearly wished to be instead of Birchwick. Or when he’d asked Father why William wasn’t allowed to play with the other children. Or when he’d asked Mama why he would be staying home instead of attending Eton with the other boys.

  Each time, the answer had been met with hesitation, then the typical, “I cannot say,” was given in response.

  But he knew the answer then, just as he knew now. It was Grandfather’s choice, and whatever Grandfather wished for…Grandfather received.

  Just as it appeared with Hugh.

  William’s grip tightened on his glass. He couldn’t bear this any longer. Not when he had the chance to improve Miss Paxton’s life before it was ruined like his parents’.

  After looking over his shoulder to ensure the Paxtons were still a good distance away, William leaned forward. “Miss Paxton, forgive me if I speak out of turn. In fact, I am most certain that I am. But I cannot hold my tongue any longer.”

  Warily, she eyed him, motioning for him to continue.

  He drew a deep breath. “You do not have to do what your brother says.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He lowered his voice further. “I can see the control he has over you, Miss Paxton. I wish you to know that you have the power to stop his behavior, to rise above his repression. To make decisions of your own without seeking his advice, counsel, or permission.”

  At the end of his words, he’d expected her to cower in fear or perhaps shake her head in denial—like his parents did when he’d said the same to them. But when a surprised laugh escaped her lips, he pulled back.

  “Why do you laugh? I speak the truth.”

  She shook her head, sobering at once. “I do apologize. I was not laughing at you, only the idea that Hugh could control me. I’m sorry, Mr. Eastwood, but you are quite mistaken about my brother.”

  William narrowed his eyes. Could she truly be speaking in earnest? She’d said the words with no hesitation—indeed, she’d laughed at his own. But then…

  “If that is the truth, why do you do what he asks of you? Why do you look for his approval in everything?”

  Her cheeks pinked a lovely shade, like the dahlias behind her. “I’m afraid I cannot divulge that information, sir. I do seek his advice on matters regarding, well, that is not important.” She looked away, the pink deepening. “But I can say with confidence that he is not controlling me. We have an agreement of sorts, that is all.”

  His mind raced over the past two weeks he’d known the Paxtons, seen them interacting with one another. Miss Paxton had never seemed as timid around Hugh as Mama and Father had been around Grandfather.

  Miss Paxton had also stood up to her brother on multiple occasions—another sure sign of her confidence around him. So she really was only taking his advice? But there had to be something that she was not telling William, the whole truth behind her choice to follow her crazed brother.

  He rubbed his jaw. “So I assume Hugh was the one to tell you to play poorly just now and at Birchwick?”

  She ducked her head. “I’m afraid so. He believes I will make a poor impression on others if I play as well as I typically do at games, or if I speak of my pet hens.”

  Still reeling from his newfound knowledge, William shook his head, forgetting to curb his tongue. “Surely you’ve had experience with people liking you for you, hens and talents alike. Why the devil would you listen to such nonsense?”

  Her voice was just a notch above a whisper, a touch of sorrow in her blue eyes. “People adore Hugh.”

  “And they do not adore you?”

  His tone was soft, yet still, she winced. “I suppose I am a little too…too myself for some people.”

  He couldn’t comprehend her words. Too herself? What did she mean, that she was too happy, too talented, too filled with light? “So you are willing to change yourself to be what your brother thinks you ought to be?”

  “It cannot hurt to try.”

  She’d clearly made up her mind, and there was nothing he could say to change it. Still, he longed to speak the truth to her, to share words of comfort. She ought not settle for any man who did not appreciate her for her. But he couldn’t. Not when he was supposed to be saying such things to Charity.

  Charity, whom Miss Paxton believed was only William’s friend.

  He needed to take his leave. “Well, I—”

  “May I—”

  William stopped as Miss Paxton started.

  “Do go on,” she said.

  “No, please.”

  She hesitated. “I was going to ask you a question, since you asked me one.”

  His stomach tensed, like a hand had gripped his flesh between its nails. He knew what was coming. “Yes?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Well, I merely wondered as to why there were chickens at the manor when the property was—is—uninhabitable.”

  William blinked, releasing a pent-up breath. Heavens, he was expecting a question about Grandfather, his childhood, even Charity. This he could respond to.

  “I had purchased the hens a few months ago and they settled so nicely at the manor, I never moved them. Mr. Smith—who I’ve hired to care for the chickens—lives nearer to the manor than Birchwick, so it makes logical sense.”

  “And why hens of all creatures?”

  “Well, I’ve always had the desire to have more animals to my name, perhaps even have charge over a small farm one day. Chickens seemed the logical first step.”

  “It would appear we both have a fondness for them then.”

  “Indeed, we do.”

  They shared a smile as she tipped her head to the side. “Although I still don’t understand why you placed them firstly at the manor instead of Birchwick.”

  He swallowed, his throat dry, as if he’d had st
raight lemons instead of lemonade. “Well, we have no henhouse at the estate, and there was one ready-made at the manor, still in good shape.”

  “You couldn’t have had one made closer to where you live?”

  He slid a finger between his cravat and neck. This girl was as persistent as her brother. Perhaps if he gave her more of the truth—as she had with him—she’d fall back from her advance.

  “Well, the truth of the matter is, my grandfather didn’t like chickens. He despised them, actually, and did not want them on his property.”

  As usual, at the mention of Grandfather, William’s palms grew sweaty, and his heart hardened.

  “So he did not allow you to have them?”

  William pursed his lips. “No, he did not. I merely kept them at the manor where I knew he’d never find them, as he hadn’t been there since—”

  The blood drained from his face at his near-slip-up. How had he been that close to sharing the tawdry details of his family’s past?

  Miss Paxton watched him with curious eyes. “Since?”

  “Since he decided to focus his attention on Birchwick Hall instead.” He cleared his throat, rushing on to avoid Miss Paxton’s knowing gaze. “I have plans to move the hens, of course, to the estate. But for now, that task will have to wait until I find more time.”

  She nodded, clearly wishing to ask more, to seek clarification for his halted words, but to his great relief, she leaned back slightly in her chair. “Well, thank you for answering my question, sir. I’ve been rather concerned with the welfare of those hens since the day we met. I am pleased to hear they are in good hands. Hopefully hands that know how to hold them better than you do, of course.”

  Their gazes held, her eyes wrinkling at the corners as she delivered that teasing grin he so enjoyed.

  His heart thumped against his chest, and he leaned forward to dispel the discomfort it caused him. As paper crinkled against his jacket pocket, the breath slipped from his lungs.

  The letters. What was he doing, enjoying lemonade, chatting with this woman, when he had Charity and Mama with whom to correspond?

  He cleared his throat and pushed back from the table. “Well, Miss Paxton, I fear I mustn’t delay my departure any longer.”

  She stood, as well, pumping her head up and down, appearing rather flustered as she smoothed the bottom of her chignon. “Yes, I do apologize for keeping you. Do give my best to the Rutledges, and I wish you well with posting your letters of business.”

  His smile weakened. There it was again, letters of business. He really ought to tell her for whom one of these letters was written. Now was his chance to do something logical, to inform the woman of his attachment to another so they could both go their separate ways.

  He parted his lips, his tongue latched to the roof of his mouth before he finally forced his words through.

  “I thought you ought to know, I do not believe you should change yourself just to have another’s approval. Especially when you are as charming and kind a woman as you are. People should be able to see your beauty on the inside as much as they can on the outside—for what is in your heart matters most.”

  That was not what he’d planned to say. Not even close.

  Yet, as she peered up at him, warmth emanating from her eyes like the autumn sunshine, he could not find it inside himself to regret his words.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eastwood,” she said, smiling up at him.

  His eyes lingered on hers for a moment longer before he retrieved his belongings, throwing his jacket over his arm and holding his gloves and hat in his hand.

  With a tip of his head, he nodded. “Good day, Miss Paxton.”

  Then he left the garden and the glowing woman behind before his guilt had the chance to settle in too swiftly.

  So much for keeping away from the cottage.

  Amy leaned forward, peering around the edge of the tree-lined pathway she and her family walked along. Strumming her fingers impatiently against her skirts, she sighed.

  There was still no sight of Mr. Eastwood. Why they’d chosen to walk instead of taking the carriage to Coniston Water was beyond her. Of course, the skies were clear, the sun was warm despite the biting air, and the walk was only twenty minutes from the cottage, but those were hardly good enough reasons now that her anxiousness filled every inch of her body.

  “Do try to maintain some decorum, sister,” Hugh said beside her with a chuckle. “I half-expect you to leap into his arms when you see him.”

  “Hugh!” Her eyes darted forward to ensure Mr. Eastwood was still nowhere in sight.

  The very idea of leaping into the man’s strong and capable arms sent her heart palpitating, but she couldn’t very well have Mr. Eastwood hear her brother speak of such things.

  Prepared to deliver a scathing retort, Amy faced Hugh, but Mama came to her defense before Amy could utter a word. “Leave her be, Hugh. If she is happy to see Mr. Eastwood, there is certainly nothing wrong with that.”

  Amy itched to bury her face in her warm, tan gloves. Was her anticipation of seeing the gentleman truly so noticeable?

  When Papa spoke next, she knew that it was. “I must say, Amy, you will have to beat me to his arms first, as I am just as excited to see Mr. Eastwood as you are.”

  His comment earned him a few chuckles before the conversation shifted elsewhere, and Amy sent him a grateful look. Papa always knew just what to say to make her feel better.

  Her peace was short-lived, however, as the pathway opened up and the gentleman appeared before them, standing at the edge of the lake beside three empty boats bobbing up and down in the water.

  Swiftly, Amy smoothed her strands of hair that did not need to be smoothed and pinched her cheeks that were already pink from the nipping autumn wind.

  She wanted to make a good impression, what with five long days having passed since they’d seen each other at the cottage. After playing Battledore and Shuttlecock, Mama had insisted on Mr. Eastwood setting a time to go boating before she’d allowed him to leave. He’d been very hesitant, though whether that was due to his busyness or because he didn’t wish to spend more time with the Paxtons, Amy couldn’t be sure.

  Yet, now, as he turned to face them—his sleeves rolled up, hat and jacket nowhere to be seen—a genuine smile spread on his lips, and Amy’s trepidations vanished.

  He was pleased to see her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Eastwood,” Mama greeted first as they drew together. “How pleased we are for this day to have finally arrived.”

  “Indeed,” Hugh agreed. “My sister has been practically beside herself with anticipation.”

  His words dampened her smile, and she turned to him with a warning, but Father was already clasping Hugh’s shoulder in his hand in what appeared to be a friendly grasp, though his knuckles turned white. “Yes, son. We are all thrilled.”

  Mr. Eastwood’s gaze lingered on them for a moment before motioning to the boats. “In that case, I suggest we do not delay.”

  He led the way forward. “Each boat will only hold a maximum of two people, so I’m afraid one of us gentlemen will have to row alone today. I will gladly offer to do so, so your family may keep together.” He paused once they reached the boats, turning to face them. “Unless someone else wishes to go alone?”

  Amy waited with baited breath, but when Hugh said nothing, she swallowed an exasperated sigh. She did not wait all of this time to go out on the lake with Mr. Eastwood to not go out on the lake with Mr. Eastwood.

  With as subtle a movement as possible, Amy nudged Hugh with her pointed elbow. Fortunately, he understood her meaning, and even more fortunately, he was willing to follow through with it.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t mind going alone, of course,” Hugh said at once. “But that would mean my sister will be with you—Roberts?”

  Amy’s eyes swung to Hugh’s. Did he just call Mr. Eastwood what she thought he’d called him?

  “It is Mr. Eastwood, you ninny,” she hissed, her cheeks pooling with heat. To think
of Mr. Eastwood now asking Amy who this Mr. Roberts was. Her brother was a fool.

  Hugh’s eyes locked straight ahead. “No, it is Mr. Roberts.”

  Amy’s heart dropped as Hugh motioned past Mr. Eastwood’s shoulders to where a gentleman stood, but she refused to believe him. Hugh was mistaken. It was not Mr. Roberts. It could not be Mr. Roberts.

  And yet, there he was, sauntering toward their party with that same confidence Amy had once admired—that same confidence that she now could not bear.

  What was he doing there? And how in heaven’s name had he found them? She looked to Hugh for an explanation, but he appeared just as stunned with his friend’s appearance as the rest of the Paxtons.

  Amy’s mind raced in search of an escape. She couldn’t remain here any longer. She couldn’t bear to be spoon-fed embarrassment again by this so-called gentleman. Would he now spread gossip about her name in Coniston as he’d done in Bath? Would Mr. Eastwood no longer speak with her if he learned of her humiliating behavior?

  She backed away, intent on fleeing the situation before any conflict could begin, but her parents moved to stand at either side of her, silent sentinels keeping watch over their charge.

  Their presence, their unspoken encouragement, finally gave Amy the courage for which she so desperately sought. She did not need to flee. She did not need to cower. She had moved beyond the infatuation she’d once held for this gentleman.

  And now, she would not under any circumstances allow herself to be embarrassed again, especially in front of Mr. Eastwood, who, incidentally, just so happened to be standing by in a watchful silence as the exchange unfolded.

  “Paxton!” Mr. Roberts greeted Hugh as he moved to greet him first. “I cannot express how relieved I am to have found you. I say, I’ve been on a dreadfully mad dash through all of Coniston just to do so. Tell me, why is the manor you said you’d be staying at in complete disarray?”

  Amy’s stomach twisted. The manor? Hugh had told Mr. Roberts of the manor?

  “Oh, that is a long story, my friend,” Hugh responded, clasping onto his shoulder. “One I shall tell you another time. But for now, you must come meet a new friend, and of course, speak with my family.”

 

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