From behind Ella, Peter sighed. “I cannot climb my tree.”
“Nor can we take our venture to the seashore.” Ella turned away from the rain-washed window. “I suppose there shall be other days.”
He plopped into a large chair by the hearth. “Will you read to me?”
She was getting rather tired of dear Dr. Syntax, but at least his travels entertained her young charge. “Very well. You remain here, and I shall fetch a book.”
She hurried toward the library, but she must have taken a wrong turn because the ornaments were unfamiliar to her. Why could she not remember where she was going? Abbingston Hall was exceedingly more logical—and not half as large.
The hall ended at a doorway.
She would have turned away, only the large wooden door was opened to a crack. Soft, indistinguishable noises drifted into the hall.
She drew closer. She shouldn’t have, of course, but she always did what she shouldn’t do. With a small nudge of her finger, she pried open the crack without sound.
An empty room stared back at her.
How odd. Hadn’t she distinctly heard someone?
She slipped inside and closed the door behind her. Her gaze swept across the green-and-gold draperies, the flowerless vases, the unused hearth.
Then she saw the painting. The life-sized woman hung on the wall, framed in polished silver. Her eyes were narrow and tight, painted in the lightest shades of blue and green. She was beautiful despite her rigidity. Was there coldness on her face, or was it only the strokes of the painter that made her appear so detached and unhappy?
“What are you doing?”
Ella’s breath caught, but she couldn’t turn. What a fool she’d been, what a fool she always was. If only she were sensible like Matilda—
“His lordship would not like you here, Miss Woodhart.”
Slowly, she turned. Her tension lightened. “Oh.” She swallowed hard. “Mr. Dunn, I thought you were—”
“Forgive me if I spoke harshly.” The tips of his ears reddened. “I was simply taken aback. This is a”—his gaze swept to the painting—”very private room, miss.”
“Which I did not intend to intrude upon.” She did a hasty bow. “Forgive me, but I must continue my search for the library.”
“Shall I direct you?”
She avoided his gaze as she swept to the door. “No, sir. I shall locate it myself.” She all but ran from the room.
She could only hope he would not inform Lord Sedgewick what she had done. She was in enough peril already after last night. But pray, what was so private about this room?
And who was the woman in the painting?
Henry was ill-prepared for the sight and unaccustomed to the odd sensations. He couldn’t have said if the sensations were warm or cold, if they comforted or inflicted—only that he was transfixed. He could not move.
She sat in the chair he usually occupied, with her elbows on the upholstered armrests, Peter in her lap, his fingers twirling one of her stray curls.
She did not fuss at him for it, nor did she even seem to notice. She read in tones soft, animated, as if the story had come alive to her. “ ‘For Dolly’s charms poor Damon burn’d. Disdain the cruel maid return’d: but, as she danc’d in May-day pride, Dolly fell down, and Dolly died—’ ”
“Died?” Peter leaned up.
“Died indeed,” echoed Miss Woodhart, brows raised theatrically.
With eyes wide and solemn, Peter settled back and listened.
Henry should have made himself known. He knew that. It was a breach of etiquette to linger in the doorway as a common eavesdropper.
But if there was comfort for him here, he could not disrupt it. He had always wanted his son to have the one thing he himself had never possessed—a mother’s love.
Yet that was the very thing he had ripped from Peter’s life. The very thing he could never give back.
“ ‘And now she lays by Damon’s side. Be not hard-hearted then, ye fair! Of Dolly’s hapless fate beware! For sure, you’d better go to bed, to one alive, than one who’s dead.’ “ A smile dimpled her cheek as if to soften the extremity of such a mature theme as death. Then her eyes lifted, roamed the room—paused and rounded.
Henry emerged from the doorway. “You have an impressive voice, Miss Woodhart.”
Peter climbed off her lap, and she snapped the book shut. “I was not aware I had an audience.”
Was she scolding him? He rather thought so. Didn’t the woman know her place? And for heaven’s sake, why was he not rankled by her unseemly candor? How odd that he should be amused by such a chit of a girl.
“Papa, it has stopped raining.” Peter tugged at his coat. “May I go out of doors?”
“I believe it would be in order to ask your governess.”
His eager grin turned toward Miss Woodhart. “May I?”
“Yes, and I shall go with you.”
He clapped his hands and squealed, but his spirits dampened some when Henry instructed him to return the book to the library first. He pelted from the room.
“And do not run in the house,” Henry shouted after him.
“I need not be in suspense as to why you are here.” Miss Woodhart remained seated, but her back arched and stiffened. “Though I do not know what I might do now, with the exception of apologizing.”
Henry stared at her. What was she talking about?
“Which I am very good at,” she added.
“Good at what, Miss Woodhart?”
“Apologizing.” Her head cocked. “But should you not first care to hear my opinion of the painting? I assure you, my lord, I shall not dare say she is solemn.”
Unease tightened around his throat. “It seldom matters to me what others think.”
“With my opinion falling among the least, I presume.” She glanced away for a moment, sighed, then returned her gaze to him with no small amount of prejudice. “My apologies nonetheless, my lord. It shall not happen again.”
Peter bounded into the room again panting for breath. She rose to greet him.
“Won’t you come too, Papa?”
He shook his head. “Another time.”
Hands clasped, Miss Woodhart and his son quit the room. The sounds of his happy chatter, the feathery trail of her laugh … They melted into a silence he knew all too well.
If only she would love his son. If only she would offer him what no woman ever had, a mother’s faithful heart.
Every little boy needed that.
Henry knew.
Ella shuddered and drew her wrapper tight around her. Thunder shook the sash window of her bedchamber. Lightning brightened the darkness, illuminating the raging sea—then the world plunged back into blackness.
How odd that she should desire to sit here, with her fingertips pressed against the cold glass, and her position so close to the turmoil outside. It was late enough that the house was doubtless asleep. She had no wish to prowl in the night, to venture out into passageways that were black and endless.
Yet it was something she must do. This was, after all, the reason she had come.
Taking her pewter candlestick, she slipped quietly into the hall. At various times when she knew herself to be alone, she had investigated all the rooms on this floor. She had discovered nothing. She had also searched below stairs, but since there were no bedchambers, she had found very little to interest her.
Thus, she approached the stairway and started up. The steps creaked beneath her, as if from lack of perpetual use, and the feeble candlelight invaded deep shadows.
She reached the landing.
Dark, empty space spread out before her, but she was not so afraid as to turn back. No. She most certainly would not do that. Courage was her virtue—wasn’t it?
She had great difficulty swallowing, but such could easily be explained, for the hallway was dusty and stifling. She padded to the first door and tested the knob. It turned with a small creak, but she hesitated. What if she stumbled into Lord Sedgewick’s chamber?
No, it was not possible. Lord Sedgewick was located in another wing of the house—Peter had informed her so. There was no chance she would be discovered. She had never seen anyone approach this floor, least of all the lord himself.
She pushed inside the room and swept around with her candle. Nothing. It appeared to be little more than an old guest room, long since abandoned if the dust was any indication.
She continued down the hall, opening doors, peering in alcoves, slipping in and out of shadowy places.
She entered another bedchamber and leaned inside.
Candlelight spread a glow across a canopy bed, a dressing commode, a Sheraton fire screen, a bookshelf …
Ella’s heart leaped to her throat. The bookshelf. Of course there would be one, of course it would be here. Lucy would dare not go anywhere without her volumes.
Ella’s hands shook as she approached. She brushed her fingers against the dusty spines, recognizing many of them, wondering why no one had missed them from her father’s library.
How Mother would have scolded her sister for taking them from the house. It was the only defiant thing Lucy had ever done in her life.
A roar split the air.
Ella jumped, whirled. Her heart settled when she realized it was only thunder. She was being as fearful and timid as Matilda. A smile upturned her lips at the thought, and she turned—
Movement caught her eye. Something small, then a rustling noise.
Her stomach lurched. Her flesh raised in goosebumps. With a throbbing chest, she lifted her candlestick.
Light cast itself into darkness. The bed was illuminated.
I have the greatest of imaginations. Sweat formed on her skin. It is only the storm—
The bed creaked, as if under a weight. The curtains rippled.
A scream lodged in her throat, but she flew away so quickly the light flickered into darkness. She darted into the hallway. She ran blindly, cupping her mouth. It wasn’t the storm.
She found her bedchamber and locked the door with her key. Dear heavens, it wasn’t the storm.
Henry glanced at her plate for the second time.
Miss Woodhart sat alone with him in the breakfast room, one finger idly circling her cup of cocoa. As if sensing his scrutiny, her head lifted.
He perused her face—the light, delicate features, the sharp blue eyes flecked with gold, the tight blond curls that framed her cheeks. Upon most encounters, he found her challenging and accusative, as if the need to defend herself was ever present.
But now she was pensive and pale, and her cool gaze made him lower his fork.
“Are you well, Miss Woodhart?”
She took a small sip of her cocoa as if an answer to his question required contemplation. She finally nodded. “Quite, thank you.”
“I trust the storm did not make sleep elusive.”
“I am not afraid of storms.” Was he in error, or had her chin trembled on the last word?
He scooted from his chair. Hesitated. Why was he getting ready to do this? “I shall talk to Mrs. Lundie and inform her that Peter will be entirely in her care for the day. You may take advantage of the time and rest.”
“I do not need rest.”
“Then you may enjoy the day to do as you please. Perhaps an outing?”
A protest shaped her lips, one second before she sighed and nodded. “I do have a letter I should like to send. Perhaps I shall go into the village.”
“I shall talk to Dunn about an escort.”
“Do not bother.”
Why did she gainsay everything he said?
“I have no need of one, and I should rather enjoy the time alone.”
His mouth twitched with irritation. “Go and write your letter, Miss Woodhart.”
She narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, and departed from the breakfast room.
Henry dragged a hand across his chin. Frustration battled against something else, something undefined that he could not place. Why had he extended privileges to her? Of what consequence could it possibly be to him if she had not slept last night, or if she was growing ill, or if she traveled to the village without escort?
No difference at all—except for the sake of his son.
“My lord, I have the greatest of news.” Dunn swept into the room and produced a small letter. “It is no small wonder you misplaced it, my lord, for it had slipped under the desk by mistake. The housekeeper spotted it only this morning.”
Henry eased the letter open. He read over the messy scrawl until his fingers tightened into fists. “One thousand pounds.” He surrendered the letter to his steward. “Go and get it.”
Dunn’s eyes shifted to the handwriting, then rose again with dejection. “Again, my lord?”
Henry’s gaze roamed to the window, where a green branch scratched at the glass.
“Perhaps there will not be any more—”
“There is always more, Dunn.” Henry raked his fingers through his hair. “Father was a fool to cumber me with this.”
“With due respect, my lord, your father cannot be to blame.”
“No.” Henry grabbed his hat from the corner of the desk. “But I know who can.”
This was all lies, of course, but at least Mother and Matilda would be pacified that she was having a good time. Ella even added a section—on her mother’s behalf—of the lessons society had administered to her. I have become of the dullest nature since arriving in London and have not partaken of any mischief at all.
She sealed the letter and tucked it inside her reticule. She donned a Pompeian-colored dress, a fichu, and a bonnet with matching red ribbons.
Peter was waiting for her in the hallway, with Mrs. Lundie fussing at him about the vices of running throughout the house. “Dinnae ye ken ye cannae do that when ye’re auld, lad?”
He answered her quietly, but his gaze stayed on Ella. “Why are you leaving, Miss Woodhart?”
“To post a letter. One cannot remain detached from the rest of the world, you know.”
He took her hand as they headed for the stairway. “Who did you write it to?”
“My mother.”
His silence wrapped cords around her heart—cords that tightened until she hurt for him. “Peter—”
“You aren’t coming back, are you?” His fingers squeezed and his gaze besought her.
She knelt before him, kissed his cheek. “You cannot think me so horrid as to break our engagement.”
“Engagement?”
“You do not remember? Did we not plan to visit the seashore?”
“Oh.” A soft smile crept to his lips. “We did.”
“Then do not ask silly questions.” She kissed him again, then charged him to return to Mrs. Lundie, who waited at the head of the stairs.
Ella found a footman waiting for her below. “Miss Woodhart, are you prepared to leave?”
“Oh—yes.”
With one hand pulling open the door, he motioned her outside. “The phaeton is awaiting you, miss.”
Had Lord Sedgewick told them? She was not quite certain what to think of that. She was still in puzzlement as to why he bothered giving her such liberties in the first place. Had he treated all of Peter’s governesses so attentively? Then why had he destroyed his own wife?
Her steps halted, every nerve frayed. “Lord Sedgewick.”
He stood beside the phaeton, his topper shading half of his face. His hand outstretched. “Do close your mouth, Miss Woodhart. It is most unbecoming.”
Resentment shuffled her backward. “I cannot know why you are offering me your hand. I have no intention of—”
“I have no intention of sending you to the village alone. As for myself accompanying you, I am only doing so because other business is required of me. I did not see the justification in sending a servant when my company will do. Now give me your hand.”
She surrendered, not due to a lack of confidence, but due to a mind too stunned to retaliate.
He climbed next to her. He was close enough that she caught the first faint scent of cologne, the lavender and citrus mingling with the late morning air. He gathered the reins and clicked to the horses.
The phaeton eased into motion. She clasped her hands as the iron gates disappeared behind them. Perhaps she should have been frightened. Maybe she was, she didn’t know … only she kept stealing glances at his face.
His profile was smooth, his chin tight and erect. He glared at the road with pale eyes—or was he glaring?
She could not tell. In fact, she had been able to determine very little about him at all. He was as distant and discourteous as Dorthea had led her to believe. Yet at other times, he seemed almost kind. How could one possess the ardent affection of an innocent child, yet bear such iniquity upon his soul?
It hardly mattered. Her estimations of character had never been precise. Not even in paintings.
Her father had been different. He had known the truth. He had recognized the lies and had died still trying to unveil them. How could she do any less?
“Peter holds you in the highest regard.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. Hesitated. “Well, his affections are returned.”
“My son does not love in part.”
“Nor I.”
“He is a sensitive child.”
“I fear you misjudge him. I would tribute him with intelligence and strength before I would wound his character with sensitivity.”
His jaw clenched. He slapped the reins on the horses’ rumps, remaining wordless for the space of a few heartbeats. Then, glancing at her again, he said, “My son never knew his mother.”
As if he hadn’t ended her himself, as if the blood weren’t on his hands. Her throat worked up and down, but she hadn’t the will to look at him. “How did she … die?”
“Illness.” Sharp, emotionless. The reins slapped again. “But then again, I suppose you are already more than aware, Miss Woodhart.”
Panic ascended. Still, she could not speak. Did he know? Had he discovered her, had he—?
“The village gossip is audacious and conceived by persons of the lowest nature. Very little truth can be found among their prattles.”
“You deny their allegations?” A question, not a statement.
His pause lingered. Guilt clipped his tone. “Their misconceptions are hardly my concern. I told you before, opinions mean very little to me.”
The countryside stretched out before them, rolling greenery and stone fences. But however picturesque it might have been, not even the sunshine could warm the scene. Coldness shrouded her until it entered her veins and pumped her heart.
And she knew her father had been right.