“Pen!” Joy bubbled through Caroline as she leapt to her feet. “The letter you just brought—it’s from Maggie. She did it! She’s convinced the governor to approve her orphanage in Valletta.”
Pen flung up her arms, scattering the wildflowers she had been arranging. “Hurrah! What splendid news, Caro.”
Caroline laughed, then rather quickly sat back down as the room began to spin. When it stilled she picked up the letter again. “I’m so pleased.”
Her spirits felt lighter than they had for, well, for longer than she could remember. This enforced break on Crete was not all bad. She had been able to keep up her correspondence with Pen’s help, and her new companion was blossoming like one of the wildflowers outside. And now, the news that Maggie had met with success. She drew in a deep breath. Her injury had not, after all, caused her friend’s project to fail—although Maggie had cautioned in her letter that she would have to remain on Malta a while longer to ensure the project got off to a smooth start.
Caroline was glad to hear she would not be immediately collected from Crete. Certainly, it was better she remain on the island another few weeks. She was not fully recovered, and she doubted Mr. Trentham would let her go until she was. And, to be honest, she did not want to go.
When he had kissed her hand it had sent an odd thrill through her, a warm swirl that had uncurled from her feet and swept through her, leaving her exhilarated and confused in its wake. Even now the back of her hand tingled with the memory.
“Grand news for a grand day,” Pen said, bending to gather up the strewn flowers. She had come in, arms full of sweet herbs and wildflowers picked from the hillsides, and set about making jaunty bouquets. Now the rooms were scented with chamomile and sage, splashed with color from the poppies and iris.
“This one for the balcony, I think.” She took up her last jar of flowers and went out to the narrow terrace. With the days growing warmer they left the door open wide, and the comfortable sounds of village life drifted up. “Caro, come look,” she called. “I think someone new has arrived. A European.”
Caroline went to join Pen. True enough, there was Manolis, his cart filled with luggage and oddly shaped bundles. Beside him on the seat was a stocky, muscular-looking gentleman, wearing a large hat that shaded his features. As they watched, the cart turned near the fisherman’s cottages and disappeared toward the olive groves.
“So it appears. No doubt we’ll discover more soon—in a village this size everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
“No question of that. Look, here comes Mr. Trentham.” Pen leaned over the balcony, waving broadly.
Spotting them, he lifted a hand in return. When he reached the villa he swung smoothly off his mount.
“Care to descend, Miss Huntington? It’s a lovely day for a stroll on the beach.”
“Yes! Give me a moment.” She hurried back inside, swept up the letter and tucked it into her pocket. Her times outside with him were precious, and she would not give them up for anything.
Pen pulled a shawl from the wardrobe and draped it over Caroline’s shoulders. “Enjoy your walk. I’ll just tidy up here while you are gone.”
Caroline found Mr. Trentham waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He offered his arm. “To the shore?”
“Yes—and I have the most marvelous news to report.” She could not help grinning at him. “But…I think we will wait until we reach the pavilion.” She wanted him to read the letter himself.
“Hmm. Let me guess. You’ve purchased a forge and are going to teach the village boys blacksmithing?” His tone was dry, but she caught the flash of amusement in his eyes.
“Hardly.” She pretended to ponder. “Although, the idea has merit.” She laughed at his expression, then stepped around a tumble of rocks. “Mr. Trentham, I believe someone new has come to the village. Pen and I saw him from the balcony, riding with Manolis.”
“Another English tourist apparently—a sportsman by the look of the gear he brought. We’ve had a plague of tourists through here of late.” The corner of his mouth lifted.
“If I was a tourist, then I certainly no longer feel like one. Not when I know half the villagers by name—and you have no idea of how much I see from the balcony.”
“Oh? What do you see from your perch?”
“I see the fishing boats go out on the morning tide, when the sea is smooth like a mirror. I see the priest walking with his spotted dog, and of course Manolis going back and forth with his cart. Did you know Young Georgios was promenading about yesterday with an enormous fish he had caught? Hoping Maria would notice him, I suspect.”
“It sounds quite crowded.” His tone suggested he preferred the peace of his isolated cottage.
She bit her lip. It was not good for him to hold himself so apart, removed from even the simple joys of friendship. She could see how loneliness had tarnished him and could not help but notice how he was beginning to brighten the more time he spent with others. Whatever secrets he held, surely they could be eased by sharing.
They had arrived at the pavilion, which had begun to list to the left. Today the cotton fabric was pulled wide, the sun sprawled over the chairs. She sat and drew the letter from her pocket. It seemed fitting that she had saved the news to share with him here, in their private sanctuary.
“See what arrived in the post?” She held it up. “A letter from Maggie, and—well, you must read it yourself, Mr. Trentham.”
“I can hardly read it with you waving it about like a fan.” He caught the pages from her and seated himself. As he read an errant smile teased the edge of his mouth, softening his features. Why, he looked quite handsome like that, with the wind lightly ruffling his hair.
“Excellent.” He looked up, a spark in his usually somber eyes. “So, the orphanage will be built. Mrs. Farnsworth has succeeded in her mission. And you are mending nicely. Here, not on Malta.” He folded the letter but did not hand it back, only gave her an expectant look, one eyebrow lifted.
“What? You are waiting for me to say how right you were?” She tried to sound indignant, but her joy in sharing the good news spoiled the attempt. “Very well. You were right, Mr. Trentham. And you needn’t look so self-satisfied about it.”
He leaned back in his chair, lips curving up in an actual smile. “One must savor these little moments.”
Something inside her unfolded at his words. She did not think he let himself enjoy much in life. It was important he could take pleasure in this.
“Though, I must confess,” he said, “I was never clear on why Malta needed an orphanage to begin with.”
“Well, there is Valletta, garrisoned by British soldiers for over thirty years.”
“Yes, I comprehend that part.”
She leaned forward. “But do you comprehend the children those men have sired? Children whose mothers have brought their infants to the gates and left them there, hoping the soldier who fathered them would take them in, see them raised as one of the privileged, one of the ruling class? The men almost never do—realistically, how can they? Many of the children must fend for themselves on the streets.”
“I see.” His dark blue eyes were fixed on hers. “And are there no orphans in London who need your help?”
She nodded. “More than enough.”
The image rose once again in her memory’s eye. The pale, pinched face of the girl dressed in rags, sheltering a younger child in her arms, both of them shivering in the chill winter rain. Caroline had glanced out the carriage window when the vehicle stopped because of some obstacle farther up the street and seen them.
Her cousin Reggie had, too. “There,” he had sneered. “Orphans. That is you, Caroline, but for my father’s generosity. You belong there. With them.”
The words had struck deep. Without thinking, she had wrenched open the carriage door and splashed across dank puddles. Her cousin called after her, but she ignored him and pulled at her cloak pin. It gave and she tugged the garment off, the cold air sudden and unfriendly with nothing between it and her skin but the fine wool of her dress.
“Here.” She held the cloak out to the girl, and it was like looking into a distorted mirror. Brown eyes dull with hunger and cold, chapped lips and cheeks, hair that lay lank and uncombed across thin shoulders. Caroline shivered from more than the chilly air. Reggie was right—this could have been her.
The girl stared at her and the child in the circle of her arms whimpered. Then, in a motion too quick to follow, the girl snatched the cloak and scuttled with her charge into the mouth of the alley. Caroline peered into the thick darkness, but they were gone.
“Fool.” Hard fingers gripped her arm as Reggie pulled her back toward the carriage. “You’ve cost my father several pounds, and for what? What did you expect? A curtsey and song of thanks? Their kind don’t know the meaning of the word.”
Caroline pulled away and hurried up the carriage steps. “I didn’t expect any thanks.”
It was true. Giving the girl her cloak had made the world a kinder place in some small way. But giving away her cloak was not enough—not nearly enough.
Was helping with a new orphanage in Valletta enough? Or funding the school in London? Would she ever be able to give enough to erase that stark image haunting her memory?
“I contribute in London.” She answered Mr. Trentham’s question. “With Maggie’s help, I’ve established a school, and have plans in motion to do more. But there are other people, other organizations that can help there. The children of Valletta have no one.”
“They do now.”
The warmth in his voice nearly undid her. She had expected more questions, more arguments—people almost never understood. It was easier to remain comfortably uninvolved, to argue and intellectualize the subject. If half the energy people spent avoiding the problem was actually put to use trying to fix it…Throat tight, Caroline gazed out at the sea.
He did not press her. Silence unfolded around them, but it was an accepting one, a peaceful quiet that did not need words. At length she drew in a deep breath and turned to find him watching her, something akin to understanding in his eyes.
“I’ve no doubt you have touched the lives of many, Miss Huntington. Thank you for sharing the news that Mrs. Farnsworth was successful in such an important undertaking.” He slipped off his chair, knelt beside her. “Now let’s see how successful we’ve been at helping this elbow mend.”
Caroline lifted her arm, letting his large, gentle hands take the weight. It was a familiar business, yet today she felt breathless as he unwrapped the bindings, the pressure about her arm easing as he unbound the splint. The last strips came away, leaving an almost painful awareness as her skin was bared to the sunlight and air.
He cupped her elbow, carefully feeling around it. His fingers hit an especially sore place and she drew in a sharp breath.
“Tender?” He looked up at her, black hair falling into his eyes. “Yes, I’d expect so. But the swelling is almost gone.”
She swallowed. “How long until we can remove the splint for good?”
“Soon.” He set the splint against her skin again and began rewinding. When he was finished he took her hand, setting his palm against hers. “Push against me—yes, like that. Hmm. You’ll need to strengthen the arm. Healing takes time.”
More time. But somehow the thought did not seem so dreadful anymore. Now that she knew Maggie had succeeded on Malta, she did not mind tarrying here. The project in London called, but not loudly. The warm sun of Crete, the slow pace of the village had worked its alchemy upon her. She felt loosened in a way she never had in England—like crystallized honey that had warmed enough to flow smoothly.
And there was Mr. Trentham. She had to admit, she was not unmoved by him. Every day she woke and considered the number of hours before he would arrive at her doorstep, tried to suppress the way her heart jumped when she caught sight of his figure.
He was still holding her hand, his warm fingers close about hers. She deliberately kept her gaze on the water, content—more than content. The pulse of the waves became the pulse of her heart, a steady thrum centered on the feel of his hand against hers. Her breath was the breath of the wind, a sudden, vast feeling, as though she were a part of the sky, the water, the light glancing on the waves, part of this man beside her.
At length he released her. “We should return.”
She was sorry to go.
“I was thinking,” he said, when they had almost reached the villa, “tomorrow we could range farther afield, if you are feeling strong enough.”
“Certainly I am. An outing would be grand. May I ask where?”
He shot her an amused look. “You may ask—but I prefer to keep my surprises.”
“How vexing of you!” She smiled up at him. “It will have to surpass the pavilion, you understand. I am becoming accustomed to a certain caliber of surprise.”
“It will meet your expectations,” he said, then firmed his lips, as if keeping himself from saying more. He remained silent until they reached the door.
“Well, good afternoon, Mr. Trentham.”
“Miss Huntington.” He paused, something flickering in the depths of his eyes.
The falling light played in his dark hair, and she turned to face him, aware of a sudden hush in the air, as though a dome of quiet had descended over the two of them. His gaze dropped to her lips and he leaned forward. Heat rushed through her, and a quickening anticipation….
“Iatros!” A man stepped out onto his stoop and hailed Mr. Trentham, and the moment was broken.
Mr. Trentham held up a hand in greeting, then stepped back, making her a slight bow. “Good afternoon. I shall see you tomorrow.”
She watched as he strode up the street, something she could only name as yearning pushing through her, wrapping round her heart, strong and sweet and uncomfortable, like a stolen sip of brandy.