Barnaby shook his head and grinned down at Miss Merryweather. “You are most definitely not a Littlewood.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized they could be misconstrued as an insult. But Miss Merryweather didn’t take them as such. She grinned back at him, dimples springing to life in her cheeks, and retied her bonnet. “Thank you. I have no desire to be a Littlewood.” The dimples vanished and her mouth pursed thoughtfully. “Apparently my grandfather thinks that laughter is vulgar. Mother said she used to be sent to her room for laughing. Sad, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“My father’s philosophy was the exact opposite. He said it was important to laugh every day.”
Laugh every day? There’d been a time when he’d done that. A lifetime ago, now. Barnaby raked a hand through his disheveled hair and glanced back up the long grassy slope. He must have looked ridiculous, running down that. A thirty-two-year-old child.
He had a deep longing to do it again.
Barnaby glanced at Miss Merryweather. She was watching him, her eyes astute. She knows I want to run down again.
Barnaby turned his back resolutely on the hillside. The route branched in front of them, one path hugging the rocky shore, one heading inland. “Where to now?”
Miss Merryweather gestured to the inland path.
For a moment, Barnaby almost balked. He wanted to keep walking the coastline, wanted to be the man who could laugh again, not the man who had to go back to Woodhuish Abbey and be Marcus’s guest.
He took a deep breath, and released it in a sigh. The light-hearted, momentary joy drained away. The weight of his betrayal settled on him again. He matched his step to Miss Merryweather’s.
The rough meadow became woodland, cool and green and dark, smelling of loamy soil and leaf mold. Barnaby’s ears caught the sound of children’s voices. He glanced to his left, up the wooded slope. Two boys, perhaps seven or eight years old, came hurrying through the undergrowth, their faces glowing with excitement. They pulled up short when they saw him and Miss Merryweather.
“Good afternoon, young Clem,” Miss Merryweather said. “And young Harry. What mischief have you two been up to?”
Both boys grinned at her. “Nothing, miss,” the taller of the two said. He had cobwebs in his hair, and carried a small shovel. The shorter boy had dirt smeared across his forehead.
Miss Merryweather put her hands on her hips. “Why don’t I believe you?” she said, with mock severity.
The shorter boy gave her a sheepish grin, but the taller one managed a good expression of injured innocence.
Miss Merryweather laughed. “Away home with you. Your mothers will be wondering where you are.”
They scampered past. Barnaby watched them run out of sight. That was Marcus and me, twenty-five years ago.
“I’d wager they’ve found a cave.”
Barnaby glanced at her. “Cave?”
“This coast is riddled with them. There’s a large one near Torquay. Marcus took us to view it last year. I felt as if the roof was going to fall on my head the whole time.” Miss Merryweather glanced up the wooded hillside. “I must remember to tell Marcus. If there is a cave, the men need to make sure it’s safe.”
If there is a cave, I wouldn’t mind being in on that expedition.
They followed the boys along the path and emerged into open parkland. Ahead was a large manor house built of red brick. “Woodhuish House,” Miss Merryweather said. “It’s part of the estate.”
“Who lives here?”
“No one yet. Marcus hasn’t decided what to do with it.”
Barnaby ran his eyes along the building, noting the oriel windows, the wide four-centered arches. “Tudor.” His gaze took in the brick chimneys, tall and decorated with curvilinear patterns. Whimsical chimneys. Fun chimneys.
“Marcus says your home in Surrey was Tudor.”
Barnaby nodded. “It was. But it was nothing like this.” Mead Hall had been built of gray stone, its chimneys grimly unadorned.
“You sold it, I understand.”
He nodded again.
“Why?”
Barnaby shrugged. “I didn’t like it.” He turned his face from her, pretending to admire the long view up the valley. Didn’t like? Mead Hall had to be the place in England he hated the most. He hadn’t been able to set foot in the garden since that afternoon with Lavinia, but he’d held on to Mead Hall for more than a year, stubbornly—stupidly—forcing himself to live there, hoping that Marcus would return to his estate next door, hoping they could patch things up between them.
And then one day Marcus had returned.
Barnaby’s chest tightened in memory. Marcus’s voice rang in his ears. You fucked my wife.
He’d put Mead Hall on the market the very next day. It had been a relief to walk away from the place and know that he would never see it again.
“You live in Berkshire now, I understand. Do you like it there?”
“Yes.” It has no bad memories, and no one knows who I am. “It’s . . .” He searched for an adjective. “Quiet.” Far from London and the barbed gossip of the ton.
Ahead, the valley stretched for half a mile of meadow and trees, with the abbey just visible in the distance. As views went, it was as picturesque as anything Gainsborough had painted, but Barnaby was unable to appreciate it. He walked alongside Miss Merryweather, his legs moving automatically while his brain chewed through the cliff-top conversation with Marcus. Godfather? Me?
He knew he had to decline. But how could he tell Marcus that without hurting him? It was impossible.
The abbey drew closer. Barnaby could see each arched window, see each crenellation on the parapet.
He discovered that he had halted.
Miss Merryweather halted, too. “You think you’re the villain in this piece,” she said, matter-of-factly. “But you’re not.”
It took a moment for the words to penetrate. What had she just said? Barnaby turned his head and frowned at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“I believe I have a fairly accurate understanding of what happened. Marcus told me before you arrived.” Miss Merryweather’s tone was faintly apologetic. “He didn’t want me to judge you based on London gossip.”
Was that sympathy in her eyes? Pity?
Barnaby found himself suddenly furiously angry. “He told you I was Lavinia’s pawn, didn’t he? Well, he’s right. I was! But what Marcus forgets is that I’m not a lump of ivory sitting helpless on a chessboard. I knew what I was doing!” Bitterness was harsh in his voice, corrosive on his tongue. “So don’t tell me I’m not the villain in this piece, because I am.”
Miss Merryweather was unfazed by his anger. “You’re entitled to your opinion, of course, Sir Barnaby, but when I look at you, I don’t see a villain. I see someone who made a colossal mistake for which he can’t forgive himself. And I think that if you allowed yourself to be Marcus’s friend again, you’d be an even better one than you were before. But that’s just my opinion. You, of course, may disagree.” Her gaze was cool, challenging.
Barnaby stared at her. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“You’ll never do anything like that again, will you?”
I would rather die. He shook his head, mutely.
“So forgive yourself, and be an even better friend to Marcus than you were before.”
Barnaby swallowed. “It’s not as easy as that.” He looked away from her, towards Woodhuish Abbey.
“No, I can see that.”
Barnaby stared at the ivy-covered abbey. He knew he should start walking again, but he couldn’t make his feet move. Half a minute passed. A minute passed. Finally, he blurted, “Marcus has asked me to stand as godfather to his son.”
When Miss Merryweather made no response, he looked at her. She was watching him, her gaze shrewd and assessing.
“I can’t do it. Think what people would say!”
“That you’re friends again.”
“There are . . . other interpretations that could be placed on it.” The most obvious being that he’d cuckolded Marcus again, that his role as godfather was tacit acknowledgement that the child was his. Especially if the boy was christened Charles Barnaby.
“You’re borrowing trouble. Charles has Marcus’s coloring.”
Barnaby looked down at the ground, and dug a lump of grass out with his heel. “He deserves a better godfather.”
“Does he? That’s a matter of opinion, surely?”
Barnaby glanced at her.
Miss Merryweather smiled, a warm smile that made dimples dance in her cheeks, and held out her hand. “Come inside. Meet little Charles. You don’t have to decide today, you know.”