‘I cannot understand how it came to be so late!’
‘It is late indeed,’ he said. ‘I hope you shall not oversleep again in the morning!’
She laughed, and wished him goodnight.
He, knowing matters were once again easy between them, mounted the stairs with a lightness he could not have imagined earlier. He felt strangely connected to her. As though... As though he were not alone.
Chapter Ten
‘I apologise for my tardiness!’ Mr Kendal wore a wry smile, and was clearly anticipating Jane’s response.
Jane was equal to it. ‘Did you oversleep, Mr Kendal?’ She could not help but give him a teasing, arch look.
He grinned in appreciation. ‘In truth, I did not!’
He walked with her towards the waiting carriage, offering no further explanation.
This was puzzling. They did not normally breakfast together, as most of the inns sent food directly to their chambers, but on every other day he had been ready at the appointed time. Just now she had been waiting for him downstairs for a full half-hour.
‘What is our destination today?’
He handed her into the carriage, then took his customary seat beside her. The familiar presence of his long-legged solidity soothed her soul, while at the same time disordering her senses.
‘I have reserved rooms for us at the famous Red Lion in Doncaster.’
She frowned in puzzlement. ‘Famous? For what reason?’
He grinned. ‘Because of a race called the St Leger Stakes. It was devised there some years back.’
‘Horse racing?’ She wrinkled her nose.
‘You do not approve?’
‘I do not see the point of it. Why should people get so excited about which horse is the fastest? And why do they push the poor creatures to run at breakneck speed, even if it kills them?’
‘I confess I have not thought of it that way before. It is always unfortunate when a healthy animal has to be destroyed, but it happens off the racecourse too.’
On they went, and something almost like their usual amity was restored.
Neither mentioned yesterday’s incident.
Unlike the cold, clear weather they had been used to, today was grey and overcast, with occasional showers. Jane felt sorry for the poor postilion, riding the lead horse, and said so.
‘I know,’ Mr Kendal agreed. ‘I wonder if we should dally longer during our rest break?’
‘An excellent notion!’ She smiled shyly at him. ‘Not every gentleman is so considerate of the needs of servants.’
He snorted. ‘Do not think me so virtuous! I am certain I have frequently been blind to the needs of many people around me.’ He fixed her with an intent gaze. ‘Tell me, does Lady Kingswood appreciate you?’
She nodded instantly. ‘Oh, yes. I enjoy being busy and purposeful, and I have spent years building my knowledge of my mistress’s needs and wishes.’ She frowned. ‘I do hope she is managing without me.’
‘Who will look after her during your absence?’
‘Mary, one of the other maids.’ She bit her lip. ‘I shall tell you something now—and I hope you do not think me uncharitable.’
‘I am all ears.’
‘I must confess to a wish that Mary looks after Miss Marianne well, but not too well!’
He laughed. ‘My impression is that Lady Kingswood places great emphasis on your unique abilities.’
She smiled nervously at this, hoping he was right.
‘I confess I am enjoying a few days without washing clothes. My hands are still red and chapped, but much less so than is usual.’
She held them up for inspection. Sure enough, there were patches of healed white skin among the red.
‘I shall be mistaken for a gentlewoman if I am away from my work for too long!’
He shook his head. ‘I have never had to think of such things.’ His gaze became unfocused. ‘There are many people who work for me—spinning, dyeing, knitting and weaving. I confess their welfare has never crossed my mind.’
‘That we are even having this conversation means you are more considerate than most masters.’
‘But that is the point I am trying to make. I am not considerate at all, for I have no idea what their lives are like, or whether they earn enough for the work they do.’
‘It is true that some servants and workers are not well-treated. Remember the maids in that first inn, who were sleeping in the cold attic? I was conscious of how lucky I am to have such a beneficent mistress as Lady Kingswood.’
‘I believe,’ he replied slowly, ‘that servants and tenants may in general be better looked after than the weavers and spinners paid for piece-work. Certainly the tenants at Beechmount Hall estate are reasonably well cared for.’ He looked directly at her. ‘I was raised to believe it was the family’s duty and responsibility to see to their needs.’
‘That is true, and yet the weavers and spinners have an independence that they highly value.’
She spent the next hour drawing him out about the number of tenants and servants at Beechmount Hall, their roles, and the various assistance they had been given over the years. She could not but be impressed.
‘I think,’ she said, tilting her head to one side, ‘you are a good master, Mr Kendal. They are lucky to have you.’
A slight flush appeared along his cheekbones. ‘Oh, well, it is my uncle who is their master.’
‘And yet it is you who are overseeing the repairs to the cottages, and it is your mother who visits the tenants when they are sick or when there is a new baby.’
‘My mother is as kind-hearted a woman as you could ever hope to meet, and she raised me with a strong sense of duty.’
Noting the warmth in his voice as he spoke of his mother, she pointed out the evident truth contained in his words. ‘You feel a sense of connection to the estate, and to those who live there.’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose it was inevitable. I gradually took on more responsibilities as my uncle became older. He is much less interested in estate matters now, preferring to leave everything to me and to his steward.’
‘He trusts you.’
He gave a short laugh. ‘Now, that is overstating the case. He allows me to perform tasks which hold no interest for him.’
‘And you do them.’
He eyed her ruefully. ‘I have been blessed—or cursed—with a strong sense of duty. I sometimes think my uncle uses this more than he ought—but I should not be critical of him.’
‘I do not take it as criticism, merely as an observation. Do you...?’ She stopped and frowned.
‘What were you about to say?’
‘It was an impertinent question. Thankfully I caught myself before I asked it.’
Do you expect to inherit the estate?
Thankfully she had not voiced such an impudent question aloud! Thinking of it, she realised they had still not discussed her grandfather, nor Mr Kendal’s notions about why he had suddenly invited Jane to visit him.
She frowned inwardly. I must not forget Mama’s warnings.
The fact that Mr Kendal was so good and so noble did not change what her grandfather had done. Mr Kendal apparently did not know why Jane had been summoned—though he must suspect she was a relative. He was not responsible for her grandfather’s actions, but neither did she wish to burden him with the need to be partisan.
The dispute was between Jane and her grandfather; there was no need to draw Mr Kendal into it. Particularly as he must have a deep loyalty to his home and those who lived there.
She felt the usual pang at the thought of a proper home.
Mr Kendal is blessed, though perhaps he does not realise it. He found a true home after losing his father. I did not. Also, she admitted, I do not wish to speak of my grandfather.
The thought of him generated anxiety and
uncertainty in her. Far better simply to enjoy her continuing journey with Mr Kendal.
And enjoying it she was—most of the time. He was gentleman enough not to refer to her collapse yesterday, for which she was grateful. And the awkwardness she had felt when he had touched her cheek was forgotten. His kindness towards her in the market had profoundly affected her. His strong arms around her as she had cried had felt safe, comforting, and not in the least threatening.
All night she had been restless, yet there had been none of the nightmares that normally followed a memory attack.
Perhaps my spirit is finally recovering.
The thought was exciting in many ways. For over five years—long after his death—Henry Grant still haunted her, shaping the way she saw herself and preventing her from considering marriage or even friendship with a man. Was she finally changing?
There was silence between them now. Somehow, during the hours they had spent together today, her posture had slackened, as had his, and now her right leg was touching his left one. His arm, too, was in contact with hers. She liked it and did not move away.
After what happened yesterday I should be wary of this feeling of warmth towards Mr Kendal, she told herself.
She did not wish to disgrace herself again. Yet she did not move away.
Yes, I am changing. I could not have done this even two days ago. I believe I trust him. That is what is different.
‘I have something for you.’ Dipping his fingers into his watch pocket, he withdrew something and pressed it into her hand.
She unfolded it in wonder. ‘Mama’s note! But—how?’ Her eyes stung with emotion. ‘You went to the market this morning at first light, didn’t you?’
‘I knew it was important to you.’ His voice was gruff.
The paper was creased, and there was dried mud on it, but it was undoubtedly Mama’s note. Emotion surged within her. ‘Thank you, Mr Kendal, thank you!’
Overcome, she leaned towards him and briefly pressed her lips to his cheek. He caught his breath and turned his head towards her.
They both froze, faces inches apart. She could feel his warm breath on her skin and her gaze was caught by his compelling grey eyes.
‘What are you thinking? Right now!’ he demanded.
‘I am thinking I wish he would kiss me!’ she responded guilelessly.
Somewhere deep inside part of her mind was screaming a warning.
No! He will remind you of Henry!
She ignored it.
I am changed now! she told herself defiantly.
An instant later his lips were on hers. Her eyes fluttered closed as the kiss she had been dreaming of for a lifetime finally happened.
A wanted kiss.
They both fumbled a little, but then—then his lips aligned with hers, slanting to fit them perfectly. The sensation sent warmth pooling within her, and without thinking she opened her lips to allow his tongue to access the warm depths of her mouth. After a moment, tentatively, she touched her tongue to his and a flame of passion fired through her. He groaned, the sound heightening her desire further.
His hands were gentle on her face, stroking both cheeks, while his tongue danced with hers in an intimate waltz of longing. Jane lost all sense of time or place or propriety. Robert was everything...her only reality.
‘Whoa!’
The postilion’s exclamation sounded loudly between them as the lead horse slipped in the mud—it had done so a few times that day—and the carriage briefly lurched, jolting them apart.
Jane’s eyes shot open as she was propelled forward. Instinctively Mr Kendal reached out to prevent her from colliding with the wooden frame of the carriage. He was successful in this endeavour, but his hand accidentally connected with her right breast.
In great confusion Jane murmured a thank-you, then straightened her bonnet.
‘Sorry, sir!’ The postilion turned briefly to shout an apology to Mr Kendal.
‘Well, drive more carefully, then!’
He sounds decidedly cross. That is strangely satisfying.
Jane stifled an inner smile. Despite the confusion she was feeling, some deeper part of herself was spiralling, singing, soaring. She felt more alive than she had ever felt.
I kissed a man and I enjoyed it!
‘Yes, sir!’
The postilion sounded chastened—as well he might. But Jane’s instinctive sympathy for a fellow servant falling foul of his master’s displeasure was tempered by the heady realisation that she had kissed Mr Kendal.
When he had asked her what she was thinking she had replied instantly, without consideration of propriety, morality, fear or consequence. Even now, when all the thoughts of what she should have done were crowding into her mind, she could not regret it.
Yesterday’s turmoil was forgotten. Mr Kendal had kissed her. She had kissed him back. She had not felt sickened or frightened.
Desire continued to flood through her and fear seemed far, far away.
Something has truly changed inside me. In my heart I am beginning to understand what my head already knows—that all men are not beasts like Henry Grant.
She reflected on the difference between yesterday and today.
Mr Kendal’s care of me yesterday was so gentle, so respectful, that the usual panic has not overcome me. It is to do with trust.
Daringly, she relived the moment just now, when his hand had touched her breast through the fine fabric of her gown. This proved to be a blunder, as instantly a mix of emotions rose within her—desire, yes, but also the sickening memory of Henry Grant’s rough cruelty.
With great effort she pushed the terror away, focusing on keeping her breathing measured and distracting herself by counting trees and gates as the carriage moved through the countryside.
Eventually she was calm again.
Very well, she told herself. So I am not able for a full mating. Not yet, leastways. But I have shared a full adult kiss with a man and not felt frightened even for an instant.
And there was something else. It was significant that the man she had kissed was Mr Kendal. When she had first laid eyes on him she had responded to his male beauty, yet been wary of his strength. Her appreciation of him had been largely theoretical—as if he were a sculpture or a painting. Seeing him as a man—as someone she might kiss and lie with and do nameless things with—had been impossible. Henry had made it so.
Now all was changed. He had touched her cheek and she had welcomed it. While it was true that afterwards her confusion had stirred up old fears, today she felt strengthened, powerful, as though there was steel inside her.
Like a highwayman hidden within her, memories of Henry’s foul actions had attacked her—yet she refused to continue to live in fear of him. It had been she who had initiated the kissing just now, with her entirely spontaneous act of gratitude.
That is important, she realised.
It had been her choice. It had not been forced on her, or expected of her. She had wanted to feel the warmth of his skin on her lips, to take in his scent, to break the barrier of propriety between them. And she had had the courage to execute it!
There was more. Mr Kendal had kissed her back, and for the rest of her life she would have a memory to treasure.
Chapter Eleven
‘How much further to Beechmount Hall?’
Robert glanced at Jane, sensing the anxiety behind her question. ‘Not more than an hour.’ He hesitated. ‘How do you, Miss Bailey?’
Since that kiss in the carriage yesterday morning Robert had been relieved to find no coldness between them, no withdrawal on her part.
Following her collapse in the market, and his understanding that something foul had been done to her when she was seventeen, the last thing he had expected was her spontaneous salute when he had given her the note from her mama. He, sensing her desire, had responded by aski
ng her the question that had been uppermost in his mind. When she confirmed that she desired his kiss, he had not hesitated.
The kiss had been all he might have hoped for, and yet afterwards he had been filled with regrets, not dissimilar to those following the previous incident.
He reviewed the litany of objections.
She is in your care. There is no future with her. She will be gone from your life soon. She experienced a foul attack when she was little more than a child.
And yet nothing could depress the strange jubilation within him. He had been her companion for five long days, and could only wish the journey had been twice as long.
Knowing it would be their last evening together, Robert had ordered dinner early and they had stayed in their private parlour until nearly midnight, talking, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. The Red Lion had been warm, clean and comfortable, and the fire in the parlour had warmed their bodies even as the company had warmed their hearts.
He had awoken this morning with a sense of foreboding. Today it would all end. Normally he delighted in returning home after being away. Not this time. This time arriving at Beechmount Hall would mean the end of his journey with Miss Bailey.
After almost five days of her endless presence he had to acknowledge that she had not irritated him nor disturbed his comfort. At least not by being difficult in any way. On the other hand she had completely destroyed his sense of equanimity through being so beautiful and witty and—Damn it. Through simply being Jane.
Dimly, he remembered feeling a tendre for one of the Harrogate debutantes when he had first started attending the assemblies there. Miss Weatherhead had been pretty, and vivacious, and he had thought himself in love with her for all of three weeks.
He recognised some similarities to what he was now feeling for Miss Bailey—a preoccupation with her to the exclusion of all else being the predominant symptom. Yet there were differences, too. He had not actually known Miss Weatherhead very well, and had occasionally been irritated by her and by her lack of opinion on matters he found important. Miss Bailey was not short of opinions, nor the ability to express them, and yet she did so in ways that were stimulating and interesting rather than dogmatic, arc, or coy. He liked her straightforwardness. It was one of the many, many things he liked about her.
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