The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

“Yes. And this was after fleeing Bath to escape the rumors he’d so graciously left in my stead.” She laughed derisively. “What a gentleman, is he not?”

  He pulled up a lip in disgust. He couldn’t understand Mr. Roberts as much as he couldn’t understand Hugh. How could any gentleman refuse Miss Paxton, then spread rumors about a woman so good and kind as she?

  “So there you have it,” she finally finished. “The pitiful tale of Miss Amy Paxton. Too unlikeable and too desperate to have any gentleman appreciate her enough for herself.”

  She’d spoken the words with a smile, but William had not missed the sorrow in her tone. His heart reached out to her, unsure of what to say. He’d been hesitant to see her today after last evening, after what might have occurred.

  But when her eyes continually stole toward him, he’d been unable to keep himself from her any longer. He’d done quite a lot of soul-searching the night before, and though he hadn’t come to any real conclusions, he did know one thing—he needed to be honest about his relationship with Charity.

  Perhaps then he’d be rewarded with more clarity. Or so he’d hoped. But then Hugh had interrupted, and Miss Paxton’s confession had come. Now was not the right time. Not when she was already beaten down by her confrontation with her miserable brother.

  “I’m sorry you’ve been injured so many times,” he began. “But please, don’t call yourself desperate.”

  She peered up at him, clearly hanging on to his every word.

  His voice softened. “There is nothing wrong with wishing for love, or wanting to be loved in return. That is what the world thrives on, after all.”

  His eyes dropped to her hand resting on the fence. “But there are people in this world who do care for you, who accept you for who you are—blunt words, talented in Battledore and Shuttlecock, love of hens and all.”

  Her lips curled, tears brimming in her eyes, and his heart swirled, light and airy, as if caught in a draft of wind. He needed to stop, to be honest with her.

  But wasn’t he being honest with her right now?

  He reached forward, resting his hand atop hers. “All you must do is learn to accept yourself, to be happy with yourself. Because you, Miss Paxton, shine brighter than any person I know.”

  Her brow raised, and a tear slid down her cheek. She laughed embarrassedly, hurriedly wiping it away.

  “You certainly have a way with words, Mr. Eastwood. Thank you.”

  Their eyes met, and his heart twisted with feelings he did not wish to understand. He wished to revel in the joy he felt in making her smile, in the happiness he experienced whenever he was near this woman.

  But his conscience prevented him. “Miss Paxton—”

  “Mr. Eastwood—” She began at the same time. “Oh, go on.”

  “No, you, please.”

  “All right. There was something else Hugh and I argued over. Regarding you.”

  He swallowed with a nod. “Yes?”

  “About the rumors surrounding your name…with Miss Winslow.”

  The breath slipped from his lungs.

  “I told Hugh I would not listen to the rumors, but today, there were stares as you and I walked together. Stares and whispers. I do not wish to pry, nor press you into speaking of something you don’t wish to speak of, but I cannot help but wonder…”

  William wet his lips, nodding his head up and down in a quick motion. He needed to be honest. But how could he tell the truth now that his feelings for her filled his heart so full, he could no longer deny them?

  He would tell her now. He would tell her that he had planned his whole life to marry Charity Winslow, but now that he’d met Amy Paxton…

  “William?”

  No. No, it couldn’t be. And yet, he knew that voice.

  Charity.

  Chapter Twenty

  Amy swiveled her head around as Mr. Eastwood did the same.

  Three strangers stood before them. One, a young woman with dark curls shining in the evening sunlight. The other two, an older man and woman, stood on either side of the young lady.

  The gentleman looked far too similar to William to be a coincidence.

  Amy’s throat tightened. She knew exactly who these people were, and the sudden shift in Mr. Eastwood’s mood confirmed it.

  “Mother, Father?” He swiped his hand swiftly from Amy’s as he swallowed. “Charity.”

  The words were a blow to Amy’s confidence. He’d called her Charity.

  This time, she could not find the strength to deny the imposing thought. Now the stares and the whispers, the rumors and the talk, all made perfect sense. He and Miss Winslow were more than friends.

  Amy stood in a stupor as he moved forward, greeting his parents as the three sets of eyes examined her as if she were one of the farm animals on display.

  Amy had done nothing wrong. But then, why did she feel guilty, as if her childish hands had been caught pulling flowers from her mother’s rose garden?

  “What on earth are you doing here?” Mr. Eastwood asked as he kissed his mother’s cheek and nodded toward his father with a strained smile. “I wasn’t expecting any of you for months.”

  “We thought to surprise you.” The woman Amy knew must be Mrs. Eastwood sent another lasting glance toward her. “It was Charity’s idea.”

  Charity. The young woman’s dark eyes finally pulled away from Amy and focused on Mr. Eastwood.

  “William.” Her tone was as smooth as silk. “How pleased I am to have returned to you at last.”

  She stood on the tips of her toes and placed a lingering kiss to William’s cheek.

  Amy’s heart stuttered to a halt. That was no kiss of friendship, nor was that look she was giving him now.

  Despite all Mr. Eastwood had said, despite all Amy had believed, there was something more between the two of them, just as she’d feared. Just as Hugh had warned her.

  And there she was, standing like the gullible simpleton that she was.

  Longing to escape, she took a furtive step to the side, but her movement, slight as it was, drew the attention back to her.

  “Well, son,” Mr. Eastwood’s father said, “we are anxious to speak with you, but for now, perhaps you might introduce us to this young lady.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Mr. Eastwood turned toward Amy. She didn’t know what to feel as their eyes met. Anger bubbled within her first, followed swiftly by sheer, utter humiliation. Why? Why would he lie in such a way?

  In that split second their eyes met, a whole conversation seemed to occur.

  “How could you?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I thought you said…”

  “I can’t explain it. Not right now.”

  “William?” his mother prodded.

  He tore his eyes away. “This is Miss Amy Paxton. Miss Paxton, my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Eastwood. And my…and this is Miss Charity Winslow.”

  Miss Winslow’s eyes snapped to Mr. Eastwood’s at his clear hesitance, though her rehearsed smile did not falter. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Paxton. I assume you are visiting our wonderful Coniston?”

  “Yes.” Amy’s voice croaked like the frogs Hugh had once hidden in her room when she was a child. She cleared her throat with a blush. “Yes, I am staying at the cottage with my family for the autumn.”

  “The cottage?” Mr. Eastwood’s father sent a sharp gaze to his son.

  “Yes, Father. I wrote to you about the situation.”

  “No, I’m afraid you didn’t, son.”

  Silence thickened the tension already enveloping the group. Had his father truly not known? Were they upset about it, enough to evict the Paxtons? Or did Mr. Eastwood have enough control that they’d be safe at Flitfield?

  “Well,” Mrs. Eastwood piped in, “I do hope you enjoy the rest of your stay, Miss Paxton. I look forward to getting to know you and your family a little better.”

  Amy could only nod her appreciation.

  Silence cloaked the group once again, and fin
ally, Amy’s senses returned.

  She inched away from the group. “It was lovely to meet you all, but if you’ll excuse me, my mother and father will be wondering where I am.”

  They murmured their goodbyes, Mr. Eastwood’s eyes lingering the longest on her, but Amy refused to meet his gaze. She couldn’t let him see the tears sliding down her cheeks.

  Amy had told her parents what happened only after they’d promised to never relay the information to Hugh. He would surely hear of it soon enough, but for right now, she could not bear his waving the proverbial flag of victory, drawing attention to yet another one of her follies.

  She and her parents had left the fair early together—without Hugh and Mr. Roberts—and Amy had shared with them her argument with her brother first before recounting her heartache over Mr. Eastwood and the woman he’d assured her twice was merely his friend.

  Father had listened in silence, neither stewing nor threatening Mr. Eastwood. Mama, however, had wrapped her arms around Amy, just like the last two times she’d been rejected.

  Of course, this time was different. This time, Mr. Eastwood had not outright rejected her. He only lied to her from the beginning, hiding his relationship with Miss Winslow.

  And this time, Amy’s heart had not merely been wounded by embarrassment. It had been broken. Because she was not merely infatuated with Mr. Eastwood.

  She was in love with him.

  She’d realized this truth as the coming days began to blur together into one, continuous, never-ending monotony. Without the knowledge that she would get to see Mr. Eastwood—hear his encouragement, feel his support—that he would instead be spending his days with Miss Winslow, Amy had hardly managed to pull herself out of bed.

  Hugh had to know something had occurred, especially since she was fairly certain the entire town knew of Miss Winslow’s return, so she’d kept away from everyone, eating her meals in her room and refusing to leave for anything. Hugh had come to her a few times, but she’d refused to answer, even after his soft apologies were whispered between the crack of the door and wall.

  After four days, however, Mama came to her room, entreating Amy to leave the house.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” she said, drawing back the curtains so the sunshine spilled forward in speckled rays across the dusty room. “I think your soul is in need of a little sunshine.”

  Amy grumbled an indecipherable answer, throwing the covers over her head, but Mama tossed them right back.

  “Come along. I must make a call and would appreciate the company.”

  “I cannot stomach a call today.”

  “Not even with Mrs. Rutledge?”

  Heavens, especially Mrs. Rutledge. There would be no way to avoid thinking of Mr. Eastwood in the woman’s home, where there were sure to be constant reminders and conversations centered around the gentleman.

  “Amy, she will surely be disappointed if you do not join me. I know she’s felt remorse over not yet having us over for the pie, even after all she has been through.”

  Amy finally rolled out of bed, her conscience pricked. She would be selfish, indeed, if she refused to call upon a woman going through so much.

  After dressing, Amy and her mother walked the short distance to town. A few stray clouds drifted over the sun, sending alternating waves of cool and warmth across their shoulders until they reached the Rutledges.

  As they sat and visited with the woman whose cheery spirits had remained almost unaltered, despite her husband’s waning health, Amy found her mood slowly shifting. For days, she’d been wallowing over the loss of a love she’d known for only weeks. Mrs. Rutledge had to have been married for nearly forty years. Despite the grief she must have felt acutely, the woman could still get out of bed that morning and smile for visitors.

  Surely Amy could do the same.

  “It is difficult,” Mrs. Rutledge whispered as she set her half-eaten piece of pie to the side. Her voice was low to not disturb her sleeping husband. “To watch his suffering our entire lives, and to have it end this way, it is nothing short of heartbreaking. But how grateful I am to have had the time I did with him. And how grateful I am for my own health, so I could take care of him. We truly are blessed.”

  By the end of their visit, Amy left the small home utterly chastened. She had been behaving ridiculously, moping about her room for days. It was time to make a change.

  “What a remarkable woman,” Mama commented as they moved down the road.

  Amy could only nod. No wonder Mr. Eastwood had been drawn to the couple. They were the best sorts of people.

  A cold draft blew up the street, greeting Amy with a tickle across her neck. Dense clouds had gathered in the sky while they’d visited Mrs. Rutledge, and thick raindrops just now began to slip down from above. In a matter of moments, the steady trickling turned into a full-on storm, as if water flowed forth from a pump in the sky.

  Amy was used to the sudden rainstorms they often received in the Lake District, what with how frequently they occurred. But the cold rain would be unbearable if they left it for too long.

  “We really ought to stop putting our faith in the weather and take our carriage next time we leave the cottage,” Mama said. She motioned down the street. “The bakery. Let us warm up with a cup of tea and see if we cannot wait for this rain to settle.

  Amy smiled, following Mama at once. “Perhaps we may bring back a few buns for Father.”

  Mama gave her a warm smile. “Wonderful idea.”

  Amy thought so, too, until she walked into the bakery and noticed who occupied the far corner of the otherwise empty room. Mr. Eastwood sat next to Miss Winslow at a small table, and across from them were his parents and a woman with graying temples.

  Amy swiveled around, her back facing the others. “Mama, we must leave at once.”

  Mama pursed her brow before settling her eyes on Mr. Eastwood. “Yes, let us go.”

  They only managed a single step, however, before Mrs. Eastwood spoke from behind them. “Miss Paxton? Is that you?”

  Blast. Amy couldn’t leave now without being considered the most uncivil lady in all of Coniston. With a deflated sigh, she slowly turned to face the others.

  Mr. Eastwood stood with his father as Amy and Mama approached, glancing between Amy and Miss Winslow before settling on his teacup still resting on the table.

  “How lovely to see you again, Miss Paxton,” Mrs. Eastwood said, her words hinting of all politeness, though her smile seemed anything but genuine. “This must be your mother.”

  Had Mr. Eastwood told his loved ones about the time he’d spent with Amy? Or did they all suspect that Amy was in love with Mr. Eastwood? Setting her questions aside, she introduced Mama to the Eastwoods and Miss Winslow, stopping on the woman with graying temples.

  “This is Mrs. Winslow,” Mrs. Eastwood added. “Miss Winslow’s mother.”

  Mrs. Winslow’s eyes had narrowed even more than her daughter’s. “Pleasure,” she said stiffly.

  “I assume you’ve decided to take shelter from the rain, too?” Mrs. Eastwood said next.

  Amy felt eyes watching her, and she glanced in time to see Mr. Eastwood pull swiftly away. Miss Winslow looked between them, and Amy’s ears burned.

  “Indeed, we have,” Mama replied. “Though only for a moment to purchase a few items. We wouldn’t wish to interrupt you further, though. Please, excuse us.”

  Amy had never been more grateful for a compassionate mother than in that moment. Being soaked through was far better than staying there a second longer.

  They turned to approach the front counter, but a young woman with a dark blue apron came up right beside them before they could move an inch.

  “Care for some tea?”

  “No, thank you. Just a few Chelsea buns to take along with us.”

  “In this weather?” The young woman eyed the rain still dotting the window with loud plinks against the glass. “That can hardly be wise, ma’am. I insist you allow me to bring you a cup of tea” She motion
ed to the Eastwoods and Winslows. “Then you can join your friends here.”

  Amy gritted her teeth. Could the girl not feel the tension between the families?

  “Oh, we wouldn’t wish to intrude,” Mama said with a glance to the others.

  Silence followed, and the young server eyed the Eastwoods and Winslows expectantly.

  Finally, the elder Mr. Eastwood nodded. “It wouldn’t be an intrusion at all. In fact, I insist you join us.”

  Before Mother or Amy could protest again, he’d enlisted his son to aid in drawing another table to theirs.

  “Mrs. Paxton,” the father said, motioning to the chair beside his own wife.

  The movements happened so swiftly, Amy remained standing in a daze. How did they manage to be maneuvered into such an uncomfortable situation?

  “Miss Paxton?”

  She blinked, only then noticing Mr. Eastwood standing by the only empty seat remaining—the seat next to his.

  As all eyes fell on Amy, she moved slowly forward, sitting at the very far side of her seat to avoid any accidental touch of the gentleman.

  An awkward silence gripped the group. If the tea was delivered faster, they could leave in a shorter amount of time. Amy peered over her shoulder to the empty front counter. Of course now the girl was nowhere to be seen.

  “I trust you’re enjoying your stay in the cottage,” Mrs. Eastwood said, finally breaking the stillness.

  Amy glanced to the elder Mr. Eastwood. At the mention of Flitfield last time, he’d visibly stiffened. Now, however, he seemed quite at ease. Had he and his son discussed the occurrence? Did he trust in Mr. Eastwood’s ability to improve and profit honorably from their estates?

  She longed to glance to Mr. Eastwood, but seated so closely beside him, surely the others would notice.

  “We are, indeed,” Mama replied. “It is a pleasant change from our estate just outside of Bath. There’s certainly a different pace here. One we quite enjoy.”

  “And when will you be returning to Bath?” Mrs. Winslow asked.

  “We are scheduled to leave in just another month.”

  Mrs. Eastwood’s smile faltered. “How lovely that we shall get to know you a little better then.”