The Cottage by Coniston (Seasons of Change Book 5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Mama and Amy exchanged glances. They’d both heard the woman’s disappointment over their staying longer.

  “I hope you enjoy the remainder of your visit.” Miss Winslow leaned forward with a polite glance at Amy.

  Amy nodded her gratitude, leaning back in her seat to hide from the woman’s calculating gaze.

  Mr. Eastwood didn’t move.

  Finally, the tea was brought forth for Amy and Mama, and Amy did her best not to chug the scalding liquid to escape faster. It mattered not how quickly she drank it anyway. Mama would never drink in an unladylike fashion.

  The conversation focused on the beauty of Coniston for a moment before Miss Winslow turned to Mr. Eastwood. “Oh, William, won’t it be lovely to enjoy the scenery again together? I have very much missed our daily rides across the countryside.”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Eastwood mumbled.

  Amy sipped her tea.

  “Oh, but we must wait until there is no chance at being caught in a storm,” Miss Winslow continued. “You know I cannot abide getting wet. I’m sure you recall the time we rode as children and were drenched through?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Amy lowered her gaze. Was that why William had stared at her on the boat when she’d admitted to not minding a little rain or lake water? He’d been comparing her to his perfect Miss Winslow who was too ladylike to enjoy such a thing?

  Miss Winslow then proceeded to face the others, detailing a very lengthy story that Amy was certain could have been told in one sentence.

  Amy knew she was unwelcome with these two families. Unwelcome and unwanted. Mr. Eastwood must have felt her discomfort, too, but he did nothing to quell her unease, simply remaining silent, not looking in her direction once.

  If he hadn’t visited her in four days to explain his lies, she didn’t know why she’d expect him to comfort her now.

  Amy recalled her determination to remain more positive, to remain unaffected by what had happened—or rather, had not happened—between her and Mr. Eastwood.

  But as story after story was told by Miss Winslow about her time with Mr. Eastwood—riding horses and reading books—Amy could hardly bear it. Nor could she bear the fact that Mr. Eastwood did not say a single word to her as she sat beside him, though he had more than one opportunity to do so.

  This was just another sign that he was attached to Miss Winslow, as well as the fact that Mrs. Eastwood and Mrs. Winslow could not seem to keep their disconcerting gazes off of Amy. They suspected something between Amy and Mr. Eastwood, of course. And they were judging her for it.

  But Amy had not known Mr. Eastwood was engaged.

  Her insides curled like a fallen leaf in the heat of the sun. She may not have known he was engaged, but she had suspected something. And she’d still gone ahead and fallen in love with him anyway.

  She was no better than he was for lying.

  As the tea sloshed, discomfited in her stomach, Amy peered out the window. The rain had settled, and a break in the clouds allowed the sun to blare forth, twinkling the droplets on the glass like round stars.

  When conversation lulled—or rather, when Miss Winslow finally ceased her stories—Amy caught her mother’s attention and motioned to the window.

  “Mama, the rain has let up for a moment. Perhaps we ought to take our leave before it begins again.”

  Mama nodded her understanding at once, stepping away from the table. “Fine idea, my dear.” She faced the others. “Thank you all so much for allowing us to join you.”

  A murmur of farewell followed.

  “It was lovely to get to know you a little better, Miss Paxton,” Miss Winslow said, though Amy had hardly said a word. “It’s a shame you’ll be leaving us in only a month’s time. There are so many gentlemen here who would have loved to have made your acquaintance, I’m sure. Perhaps before you leave, my William and I will be able to introduce you to them.”

  Amy’s cheeks burned. Her William.

  Embarrassment flushed freely throughout her—which had no doubt been Miss Winslow’s intention. Amy could not blame her. If William was Charity’s, she had every right to stake her claim.

  Still, Amy raised her chin all the same. “As you said, our visit will not be long enough to necessitate such introductions. But I thank you for the offer, all the same.”

  With a nod and her small parcel of Chelsea buns in hand for Papa, Amy left the bakery with Mama, sending only a fleeting glance back at the others. Miss Winslow was the only one watching her, and though the woman smiled, she slid her arm through Mr. Eastwood’s with a pointed look at Amy.

  Without another glance at Mr. Eastwood, Amy left the shop.

  “Oh, my dear,” Mama said at once, wrapping her arm around Amy’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  Amy shook her head. “You needn’t apologize. I blame my own stupidity for allowing myself to fall for the gentleman in the first place.”

  “It is not as if you knew he was soon to be engaged.”

  Amy swallowed, turning away from Mama. That was one thing she’d omitted from her parents when she’d recounted all that had occurred between her and Mr. Eastwood. She couldn’t bear her parents yet again thinking she was a simpleton by not seeing the signs that Mr. Eastwood was, indeed, attached to Miss Winslow—despite his frequent denials.

  They continued down the road, the sun having swiftly been shadowed by the dark clouds once again. As the first raindrop hit against their bonnets, they increased their speed, moving past the shops to reach the small, terraced houses.

  The wind increased, blowing an errant drop against her face. Amy reached for her handkerchief to wipe the moisture from her brow, only then realizing she did not have her reticule.

  “Oh, no,” she breathed, her pace slowing as she closed her eyes.

  “What is it?” Mama asked.

  “I’ve left my reticule at the bakery.”

  “I’ll return for it,” Mama decided at once.

  Relief flooded Amy’s limbs, but as another drop fell from the sky, she hesitated. She could not ask her mother to do such a thing if it meant Mama would be in the rain for even longer.

  She sighed with lowered shoulders. “No, I will do so.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll slip in and out of the shop. They are most likely gone anyway. You carry on, and I will catch up with you directly.”

  Amy left her hesitant mother, scurrying through the streets, though dread filled her to face the families again.

  Perhaps they’d be gone. Or perhaps they would ignore her as much as she wished to ignore them?

  She continued rifling through different scenarios until she looked ahead and saw the very man she wished to avoid walking toward her, and her heart stumbled.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Amy slowed her steps, ready to turn back around to avoid another awkward confrontation with Mr. Eastwood, but as she realized his family was nowhere in sight, and that he clutched her reticule in his hand, she paused.

  There was no logical reason for her to run away now. Especially when his eyes locked onto hers until he stopped a few paces away from her.

  He nodded his head in a simple greeting.

  “I was just returning for that.” She motioned to her reticule he still grasped in his hand.

  “Oh, yes.” He extended it toward her, and she was careful not to touch him as she retrieved it. “I noticed you dropped it only a moment after you left.”

  Amy nodded, eying the rain speckling his black jacket. “Well, I must thank you for saving me from making the entire journey back.”

  She took a step away at the same time he moved forward. “Did you enjoy the tea at the bakery?” he asked.

  What was his purpose in drawing out this unpleasant, stilted conversation? Did he not worry that Miss Winslow would discover him and call him out for his behavior? Or did he think he could get away with lying to both women?

  “I did.”

  He nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t
have the opportunity to speak with you more.”

  Frustration sparked inside her. She tried to hold her tongue, to remain pleasant as he was, but then, why should she?

  “You did not have the opportunity?” she asked, tipping her head to the side. “Or you did not wish to speak to me in front of Miss Winslow?”

  Mr. Eastwood’s cheeks turned a shade Amy had never seen before. “Miss Paxton, forgive me. There is no excuse for my behavior toward you. I wished to come to the cottage to explain, but my time has not been my own. And I tried so often to tell you the truth before this.”

  His clear discomfort fanned the flame of her confidence. “The truth? The truth about what exactly? That you are, in fact, engaged?”

  “I am not engaged to her.”

  She blew out an incredulous laugh. “How can you say such a thing?”

  He drew closer to her, his brow furrowed. “Because it is the truth. We are not officially engaged. We never have been. However…” He swallowed, wincing. “We have discussed at length about…about marriage.”

  Hearing the admission, knowing it was the truth, was the final dagger to her heart. The breath rushed from her lungs, her anger dissipating as hurt rushed to fill the hole his dishonesty had caused.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me when I gave you opportunity after opportunity to be honest with me.”

  “I tried,” he rushed on, a pained expression on his brow. “I did. When you first asked me about Miss Winslow, I did not tell you because I wished to keep my business to myself. As the weeks passed by and we spent more time together, I knew I could trust you enough to tell you, but I did not wish for our friendship to change.”

  She shook her head, attempting to swallow the information he’d given. “Did you not consider that our friendship would change upon the arrival of Miss Winslow?”

  He lowered his head. “I thought you would be gone from Coniston long before she returned.”

  The words struck Amy to her very core. Of course. He was simply having fun with Amy. She was just a friend to help pass the time before Miss Winslow returned. He cared not for Amy, only for his own well-being.

  “So you were using my presence as a balm to ease your missing Miss Winslow?”

  His brow furrowed. “No, that is not what our friendship is at all, Miss Paxton.”

  With a shake of her head, she backed away, unwilling to listen any longer. “Well, you may have your wish now, Mr. Eastwood. I’ll remain at the cottage until we depart Coniston so you will never have to see me again. Good day, sir.”

  She left him there, standing in the rain, as dejected as a child who’d lost himself and his missing dog in the woods.

  It wasn’t too far from the truth. Mr. Eastwood had lost his pet in Amy. She only hoped Miss Winslow knew what she was getting into by marrying someone so dishonest.

  Miss Winslow. Her footsteps slowed until she stopped altogether. Turning on her heel, she found Mr. Eastwood still in the same spot as before.

  She hesitated only a moment. She really should not be discussing such private matters, especially in the middle of the village, but honestly, what did she have to lose now?

  “I can understand how you could be dishonest with me, sir,” she said, slowly stepping toward him. “After all, you have known me for a mere month. Miss Winslow, on the other hand…I assume she knows nothing about the fact that we nearly kissed.”

  Mr. Eastwood flinched, but his eyes remained on hers. “No, she does not.”

  “How could you keep that from her? How could you be so dishonest with the woman you love?”

  “I don’t lo—” He stopped abruptly, turning to face the opposite side of the street. His jaw twitched. “There is no excuse for my behavior, for my treatment of either one of you.”

  Amy narrowed her eyes, her heart pattering against her chest for reasons she could not understand. “You do not love her?”

  He moved toward her, lowering his voice. “I didn’t say such a thing.”

  But she’d heard him nearly say it. And Miss Winslow had to love him, didn’t she? What with how possessive she’d been and the way she stared at him with sparkling eyes.

  Mr. Eastwood gave a heavy sigh. “It is complicated between the two of us. Our pasts are intertwined in an inexplicable sort of way.”

  “So you marry her due to a connection between your families?”

  She really had no right to be asking such questions. But then, he had forfeited the right to privacy by lying to her, had he not?

  “No, there are other reasons.”

  Amy waited, but he kept silent. Clearly, he was unwilling to divulge any more information. And Amy was finished waiting. She needn’t hear what he had to say anyway. No matter what it was, it wouldn’t change what had occurred between them—or the fact that Mr. Eastwood would marry Miss Winslow.

  “Miss Paxton—”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Eastwood. I must return to Mama before the storm worsens.”

  She turned away, but he ran in front of her, blocking her path with a raised hand. “No, surely you must understand. My life has been dictated by Grandfather from the beginning. When I was a young man, I made the choice to marry Miss Winslow because Grandfather did not approve of her. But since then, I’ve been made to realize certain facts about our families. I must marry Charity because I owe it to the Winslows.”

  Amy shook her head. “This is none of my business, Mr. Eastwood.”

  She wasn’t going to listen to this. Nothing he said would ease her broken heart. She walked past him with a raised chin.

  “Please, Miss Paxton,” he called after her. The pleading in his voice made her feet stop of their own accord. Slowly she turned to face him.

  Sorrow flooded his green eyes, and the helpless expression on his face reminded her again of that little boy lost in the woods. “My grandfather is the reason Miss Winslow’s father is dead.”

  “What?” she breathed.

  Mr. Eastwood took a step closer to her, lowering his voice. “When my grandfather discovered his wife with another man…that man was Mr. Abraham Winslow, Miss Winslow’s grandfather.”

  The breath rushed from her lungs, though confusion still lingered before Mr. Eastwood continued.

  “Miss Winslow and I were not alive for any of this, though my father and hers were both nearing ten years old and remembered the rumors around their two families. Grandfather did not discover the truth about his wife until years later when he found letters at the manor written from Mr. Abraham Winslow. Naturally, he challenged him to a duel. Mr. Abraham Winslow failed to appear on the date settled and was labeled a coward.”

  William winced as he continued. “As years passed, Miss Winslow’s father grew, and at age seven and twenty, when Miss Winslow was merely six years of age, he, along with his father—who had died from disease of the lungs years earlier—were publicly called cowards by my grandfather. Mr. Winslow would not stand for the humiliation, nor to have all of Society know about his father’s abandonment of the duel. He then challenged my grandfather to a duel. Given their significant age difference, Grandfather should have refused. But he accepted, and Mr. Winslow was killed.”

  Amy’s mind swirled as she attempted to piece together the information, Mr. Eastwood rushing forward.

  “The duel was kept quiet, and only our two families—and the Rutledges—know the full truth of what occurred. Miss Winslow and I had no notion until her mother informed us. My grandfather forbade me to have any contact with the Winslows. But knowing what I did, that Grandfather was the reason their family struggles to make ends meet every day, I could not keep away.”

  He paused, searching Amy’s expression. “Do you see, Miss Paxton? My relationship with Miss Winslow is not simple. I am required to do this, to fix what Grandfather destroyed years ago. To help her family in any way I can. I could not share with you all of this before, no matter how I wished to.”

  Amy shook her head, her breathing calm. “I understand. I understand your desire to
keep such a history quiet between your two families. But that still does not explain to me why you could not have said you were going to marry Miss Winslow.”

  Amy would not feel remorse for her honest question, not even with Mr. Eastwood’s crestfallen face.

  “Because I was afraid. I was afraid you would no longer speak with me. I was afraid to lose the light you’d brought into my life.”

  Her chest constricted. What was he saying?

  “Amy,” he breathed, her Christian name on his lips making her legs tremble. “My feelings for you…”

  She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head firmly.

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t listen to him say it, no matter how badly she wished to hear it. She couldn’t hear him express any feelings he might have for her. Not when his reasons for being with Miss Winslow were so valiant, and so very convoluted.

  And Amy would not hurt Miss Winslow like Amy had just been hurt herself.

  “Amy?”

  “No.” She backed away, shaking her head. “No, Mr. Eastwood. Go back to your family. To Miss Winslow. And I will go back to mine.” Emotion swelled in her throat. “Hugh was right. I never should have pursued you.”

  The last of the rain dissipated as William returned to the bakery. Shortly after, the clouds dispersed, warming Coniston and its inhabitants with bright sunshine.

  But William could not feel any warmth. After sharing the full truth with Miss Paxton, he longed to believe that she’d left him alone in the road because she disapproved of his past and his family so very greatly.

  But he knew she’d left because she’d disapproved of him so greatly.

  He followed his family and the Winslows down the road for another hour, browsing through shop windows and purchasing a few goods before they made to leave.

  “William, would you mind if we walked instead of taking the carriage?” Charity asked as the others filed in. “I have a sudden desire to stretch my legs a little longer.”

  He swallowed. Charity never chose to walk over ride. She despised walking more than she despised getting caught in the rain. Surely she and his family had seen him holding Amy’s hand, as well as the looks shared between them. No one had mentioned a word about it. But would that end with this walk?