The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  “I already told you she is my friend.”

  She gave him a pointed look. “And?”

  William shook his head, unable to provide more. The silence between them was as thick as the darkness beyond the brook.

  “If you will not say more,” she began, “I will admit that I am not engaged.”

  He couldn’t explain the odd rush of relief flooding his limbs, nor the airiness to his heart.

  “Nor am I,” he said.

  He attributed his response to the lightheadedness he felt. Logic certainly couldn’t have dictated his words, though true as they may be.

  “Well, then,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I suppose we know a little more about one another then.”

  “Indeed.”

  She pushed away from the wall she had leaned against and disappointment struck. Was she making ready to leave?

  “Tell me,” he began, desperate to keep her there, to maintain her company for a little while longer, though he had no idea where his words were headed, “will you always do what Hugh asks of you?”

  “No, not always.”

  He pushed away from the wall, as well, taking a step toward her. “What about other gentlemen? Will you do what they ask of you?”

  She raised her chin. “I suppose it would depend on what gentleman it was.”

  Their eyes locked. William had taken leave of his senses, but he hardly cared. He was much too focused on the perfect features of her face. On her soft hair he needed to touch. On her full lips he needed to taste. “Suppose I was the gentleman.”

  She swallowed, taking a step back. “I-I suppose it would then depend on what it was that you were asking me to do.”

  He raised the side of his lip, though he didn’t say a word. If he did, he might not have the courage to continue.

  He reached around her, bringing the gate from where it tapped softly against the stone wall in the slight breeze. Gently, he brought it forward, bumping against Miss Paxton so she had to take slow steps toward him until the gate was latched securely in its place.

  She stared down at it, no doubt wondering how it stayed. He wasn’t about to tell her it wasn’t a permanent fix, that one push would send the broken gate swinging back against the stone. He wanted her close to him. He needed her close to him.

  And close they were, their bodies a mere breath apart. He looked down at her, studied every inch of her face before settling on her lips.

  “You never answered me, Mr. Eastwood, what it is you’re asking of me.”

  “I think you know, Miss Paxton.”

  She wet her lips, and suddenly, all sense threatened to flee as those pink lips glistened in the candlelight.

  He reached up his hand, hesitating, hovering just above her cheekbone. If he did this, if they did this, everything would change—his life, his future, their relationship. Was he prepared for that? Was she?

  “My question now,” he breathed, smoothing back her hair with the slightest brush of his fingertips, “is if you will be asking Hugh for permission, or if you will choose for yourself what it is you want.”

  “I will not be asking Hugh his permission for anything.”

  His eyes flicked between hers. “Then what will it be, Miss Paxton?”

  “I choose to…”

  Her eyelids fluttered to a close, and William’s breathing refused to function any longer. Finally, he allowed his fingertips the touch they so desperately craved. Her skin was cool and soft, even softer than he’d imagined. He slid his fingers along her cheekbone before cradling her face in his palm.

  She leaned into his hand with a prolonged sigh, though she said nothing still. What did she fear? Merely the fact that they were outside alone—or was there something else keeping her from agreeing to their kiss?

  Slowly, he trailed his free hand down her opposite arm until his fingers found hers. He brought them up, resting them against his chest. She stiffened when she touched his bare skin just below his throat, then her touch softened.

  She most certainly could feel his heart thumping, but somehow, he didn’t mind. He longed to let her know the effect she had on him, if only to encourage her to finally give him permission.

  “Miss Paxton,” he whispered, leaning close enough for their noses to touch, “what is your decision?”

  He waited with baited breath. He needed her consent to continue, to finally allow himself to kiss her. Then he knew he would not be taking advantage of her. Then he would know that she wished to kiss him in return.

  Then he could justify his actions.

  “I…” She raised her chin, her breath on his lips. “I want—”

  She broke off in a gasp, slipping from his grasp as the gate clicked open and gave way. Swiftly, he reached forward, wrapping his arms around her before she could fall.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She looked back then forward to face him, steadying her feet on the ground. “Yes,” she breathed.

  They paused, their arms around each other, faces inches apart.

  But the moment had passed, and logic resumed.

  Abruptly, he released her, ensuring she was steady before taking a step away. “Forgive me. I have taken leave of my senses.”

  It was after midnight. They were alone in her garden. And he was going to marry Charity.

  Wasn’t he?

  He shook his head at his own thoughts. “The gate will be fixed in the morning. Goodnight, Miss Paxton.”

  He retrieved his belongings swiftly then crossed over the small foot bridge. Only then did he register the confusion on her brow and the worry in her eyes. He stopped, turning back to face her as she walked to the house with the lantern aloft.

  “Miss Paxton?”

  She turned around, her brow raised. “Yes?”

  His mind raced. Should he apologize again? Explain his behavior? With a shake of his head, he scrambled for the words. “Will you be at the festival tomorrow, by the fields near Birchwick?”

  She studied him for a moment then gave a single nod. “I believe so.”

  “Excellent. Then I will see you there.”

  The small curve of those blasted, tempting lips was more than worth the effort it took for him to turn back around.

  With a nod of his head, he left once again, not stopping until he was hidden completely in the shadows of the trees.

  Holding his breath, he turned around in time to see the lantern disappearing into the cottage and the door closing behind Miss Paxton.

  Once alone, he dropped to his knees beside the brooklet and flung splash after splash of icy water across his face. He blew out a pent-up breath.

  How could he have allowed such a thing to occur when he fully intended on marrying another?

  Unless, of course, Charity returned from London with news that she’d found another.

  As a flash of hope illuminated his sunken chest, confusion crippled his mind. If he did not wish to marry Charity…did he want to marry someone else entirely?

  He leaned back with a silent groan, raking his nails through his hair. No. No, he could not entertain such thoughts. He’d planned his entire life to marry Charity, to live a life of ease, and to perform his duty to fix what Grandfather had done to the Winslows. One night of fleeting desire could not change that. Not only that, their marriage would not only benefit them, but their entire families. For perhaps the past could then finally be forgotten—the part of his past he’d not had the courage to share with Miss Paxton.

  Light flickered in the corner of his eye, drawing his attention to the top window of the cottage. A slender silhouette appeared in front of the light as Miss Paxton stared up at the bright moon in the sky.

  His heart twisted as he tried to wring out any remaining feelings for the woman—but it was of no use. Those feelings had surfaced that evening from a deep-rooted connection he’d had with Miss Paxton. A connection he could not explain nor deny.

  But then, what did that mean for the connection he thought he’d shared
with Charity? The connection that had begun to feel more and more like a burdensome duty than a blessing?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Amy’s eyes trailed after the large, black-spotted pig as it walked round its makeshift enclosure. Mr. Smith, the owner, rattled off various facts about the animal and his superb pedigree while those gathered around the enclosure listened with interest, asking questions and expressing their appreciation for such a fine animal.

  Amy, however, propped her chin on her fist and leaned against the tall fence, doing her best to listen to the farmer, though her attention constantly shifted over her shoulder, where Mr. Eastwood stood speaking with a group of gentlemen.

  He wore his hat and jacket today, a far cry different than how he’d appeared before her last evening.

  Last evening. She still couldn’t believe he’d shared so much about his past with her, nor his feelings concerning the Rutledges. And the kiss that almost was… She sighed, shaking her head. His departure had been disappointing to say the least. But she’d merely chalked it up to his respect for her.

  After all, no man should be kissing a lady after dark alone in her garden, no matter how she desired it.

  Mr. Eastwood’s laughter brought her back to the present, and she unknowingly smiled just as his eyes caught hers. She faced forward, her cheeks stinging. Again.

  That had to be the hundredth time he’d captured her staring. This time—this time—she’d keep her eyes on the pig.

  “Fascinating, isn’t it, cricket?” Papa asked beside her, motioning to the animal. “Who knew there could be so much to learn about pigs?”

  “Indeed, Father. I hadn’t any notion.”

  Nor did she understand why they needed to learn so much about them. Perhaps Papa had a certain fondness for pigs as she had for chickens? Or perhaps he simply liked to learn about his food before eating it?

  “Might we go explore the booths next?” she asked.

  Mama, who stood on Father’s opposite side, leaned forward to reply, though her eyes remained on the livestock. “Yes, my dear, in just a moment.”

  Amy stifled a sigh. She’d been to many a rural fair before, and this one was no different, even though they’d not arrived until later. She enjoyed lumbering about the open fields, looking at the animals and exploring the booths and carts filled with food, earthenware, and tools as much as the next person. But her parents always took an unduly length of time at each location. At this rate, they wouldn’t be round the entire fair until next Friday.

  She tapped her fingers anxiously against the fence, wondering if Mr. Eastwood might come speak with her. He’d been speaking there for nearly a quarter of an hour. And she knew he’d seen her.

  Perhaps she ought to look one last time, just to see if he was still there or if he’d moved elsewhere. Slowly, she peered over her shoulder with as much indifference as she could muster.

  But Mr. Eastwood no longer stood with the group of gentlemen. Instead, he was headed in her direction with a confident stride that made her heart tremble. She swung her body round to face away from him again, the blood rushing from her head.

  “Are you well, Amy?” Papa peered down at her as she clung to the top of the fence.

  “Yes,” she said in a high-pitched tone.

  She plastered on a smile to be more convincing, though he still watched her with a curious eye.

  The pig, look at the pig.

  What was the matter with her? She’d spoken with the gentleman countless times before. Heavens, she’d nearly kissed him! So why, now, was she ready to swoon at the thought of his approach?

  Yet, as he spoke her name from behind—his deep voice like smooth cream pouring over warm pudding—she knew why.

  “Good evening, Miss Paxton.”

  Pulling on her best surprised expression, Amy turned to face the gentleman. “Oh, Mr. Eastwood. Good evening.”

  His eyes twinkled as if to convey his knowledge about her feigned surprise, though he remained silent on the matter, allowing her to maintain her dignity.

  “Lovely to see you again, Mr. Eastwood,” Mama said as she and Papa turned to greet him, as well. “Coniston certainly knows how to put on a lively fair.”

  He gave her a nod of gratitude.

  “I take it you’ve seen Mr. Smith’s lovely pig before?” Father asked, turning back to the animal.

  Mr. Eastwood came to stand beside Amy, his sleeve brushing against her arm as he clasped his hands behind his back. “Indeed, I have. He’s quite proud of the creature, as he is with all of his animals.”

  “Has he brought more?” Father asked.

  “Indeed. The majority of the animals here belong to him.”

  “And what of your hens, Mr. Eastwood?” Mama asked. “Did you bring them?”

  “Of course. I could not pass on the opportunity to boast of their beauty to the entire town. They are just beyond there.” He motioned to the opposite side of the field where more animals were situated in even more makeshift enclosures. “I’m certain they would not mind a little reunion of their own, Miss Paxton, if you’d care to see them in return?”

  Her chest swelled. She sent a quick glance to her parents, who nodded their approval at once.

  Amy had told her parents about declining Mr. Roberts in the boat, but she hadn’t the courage to speak to them of yet another one of her poor decisions—lingering out of doors alone with the very gentleman before them. If they would have known, surely they would have been less apt to allow their daughter to walk away with him.

  With a slightly guilt-ridden conscience, she faced Mr. Eastwood. “I would be most delighted, thank you.”

  “We will join you there in a moment,” Papa said, then he and Mama faced the pig once more.

  Mr. Eastwood offered his arm to her, and she wrapped her hand around his forearm, careful not to grasp too tightly, though she longed to feel for herself the muscles she’d observed working time and time again.

  “Are you having a pleasant evening?” he asked, keeping his gaze trained forward.

  “I am. And you?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  The air between them was as stilted as their conversation. Amy could think of nothing to say, her mind dwelling entirely on last night and the way he’d stared at her parted lips.

  She blinked away the image and drew in a deep breath.

  “I hope you don’t mind my pulling you away from the pig,” he said next. “I couldn’t help but notice the look of boredom on your face.”

  She cringed. “My parents have an unfounded fascination with the animal, I’m afraid. I will never be able to thank you enough for saving me from suffering through what was sure to be another half an hour of their admiration.”

  He chuckled, and the tension between them lessened. “Surely pigs are not so very dull.”

  “It is not their dullness that bothers me, but their stench.”

  “Ah, yes. I must agree with you there. But am I right to assume you’d rather stare at a pig than walk through another field of cows?”

  He motioned to the left of them where two large, Highland cows stood, tied to a small stake buried in the ground. They bellowed as the two walked by, and Amy flinched, instinctively grasping Mr. Eastwood’s jacket tighter.

  He laughed, resting his hand atop hers. “Worry not. We’ll steer clear of them from this point forward.”

  The comforting pressure of his hand on hers, the warmth percolating through both of their gloves, soothed her worries, and the rest of her discomfort melted away.

  Her confidence and security grew with her arm laced through his, and as her comfort improved, her eyes found more pleasure in the sights around her.

  The evening sun still glowed brightly, casting a golden light across the green fields. The orange and yellow trees at the edge of the grass caught the light, as if lit by a warm, gleaming fire.

  Despite the long day they’d already had, the country folk still stood by their carts and booths, determined to stay until the last minute to
sell the rest of their bright red apples and sharp-smelling cheese, of their handmade leather satchels and clay pots and plates.

  As she and Mr. Eastwood meandered through the center of the fair, children ran past with their pastries and small baskets of strawberries, their mothers skittering after them with flustered cheeks and wide eyes. A lasting game of croquet in a nearby open area sent a large crack through the air each time a ball was struck, and a small group of young people gathered nearby to dance to a lively tune played on the violin by a man with a long, white beard.

  The air breathed of life and joy, of laughter and music and friends.

  Then she noticed the stares.

  At first, she thought she’d imagined them, the lingering eyes of old and young women alike, the clear absence of smiles as they did so. Even Miss Booth and her mother, who had been so kind at the picnic, sent penetrating stares in their direction, looking away without a response to Amy’s greeting smile.

  Mr. Eastwood hardly seemed to notice, pointing out various craftsmanship that his own tenants had created or the smooth, brown eggs his very own hens had laid.

  Amy did her best to listen and respond, but when they finally reached his chickens, standing outside a thrown-up henhouse, whispers from nearby reached her ears.

  “Mr. Eastwood, walking with her?” came the first. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I didn’t even know they knew each other well enough to walk in such a way together,” came the next.

  “Do you think she knows about her?”

  “Oh, she must. The whole town knows.”

  A coldness rushed down Amy’s spine. No, she would not focus on this issue again. Mr. Eastwood had denied a relationship with Miss Winslow twice now. He’d said the town loved to speculate about him and his family. This was just another thing for people to pry and gossip over, surely.

  “Are they not as lovely as you remember?” he asked beside her, bringing her attention to the present.

  “What? Oh, no, of course they are.”

  “Then why do you appear so…disturbed?”