“Very good,” he said. “Until Friday.”
“Until Friday,” she confirmed, then listened to his footsteps retreat toward the west side of the house.
She waited a few seconds and then ran on her tiptoes to the window of the parlor. She moved the curtain aside in time to see him pass by the window so closely that she squeaked again and dropped below the sill while clapping her hand over her mouth.
After another moment, she hurried to the front window beside the door to watch his back as he retreated down the steps, soon disappearing all together. She turned and ran up the stairs, knelt below the window of her bedroom that overlooked the lane, and peeked over the sill to watch him untether his dark brown quarter horse from the post, turn it around, and then smoothly mount with only the stirrup for assistance.
She could not see him well, what with his high collar, heavy coat, and beaver hat, but he had chocolate-colored hair that showed beneath the brim and a very nice seat on his horse. His greatcoat split so that it fell on both sides of the animal. He looked back at the house one time, and she dropped to the floor before looking up again in time to see him disappear around the bend.
Amber kept her eyes on the road for some time before turning so her back was against the wall below the window and pulling her knees to her chest. She could not reasonably account for the fluttering invigoration she felt in the wake of Mr. Richards coming to the house and dared diagnose it as giddiness until she reached a hand to her head, where two knit caps protected her from the cold. Her happy mood faded along with her smile.
What good would giddiness or excitement do her in reaction to any man, much less a gentleman? Did she fancy herself able to make any kind of impression upon him with her condition? He would not see her. He would not ever know her. And she’d required him to make a second trip all the way from Romanby rather than allow him the access he’d requested. He could very well be married, though if he were, it would be expected for him to bring his wife with him for such a visit. Regardless, he was certainly used to better treatment than she had given him.
She was embarrassed to have been affected by such a minimal exchange and lowered her hands to her lap, somber as she reflected on the meeting. He would likely return to his friends and family and laugh at the ridiculous nature of his visit. She could not blame him if he did. She surely would have a year ago had she been on his side of the conversation.
“It is a relief to be honest with oneself,” she told herself as she stood and smoothed out her now grease-stained apron that covered her simple blue woolen dress. If he had seen her true person, he would never want to come back. Not even to find the record he sought. She took a breath and let it out, lifting her chin and choosing not to wallow. “However, I am still a gentleman’s daughter, and I shall most certainly have tea and cake to serve on Friday.”
Chapter 25
Thomas removed his hat before letting himself into the magistrate’s office only minutes before it was set to close for the day. The clerk, a rather jovial man with a shiny pate and thin shoulders, smiled up at him. “Mr. Richards,” he said. “What can I do you for today?”
“I should like some help determining the owner of a specific parcel of land.” It was all Thomas could do to keep his anxiety out of his voice. He had argued with himself the whole way back to town.
It was impossible.
He should be consigned to Bedlam for even thinking it.
But that voice . . .
Mr. Kimball moved to the area map posted on the office wall. It showed roads, rivers, and the individual parcels of land—hundreds of them at least. “I’m happy to help you if I can, Mr. Richards. Which plot are you asking for?”
Thomas scanned the map until he found the Romanby road, then followed the line with his finger until he found the lane that led to the cottage. His finger stopped at what he thought was the appropriate distance given the scale of the map. “This parcel here, I think.” It was larger than he expected, perhaps two hundred acres. “There’s a house called Step Cottage set on the incline of the hill there.”
“Right, right,” Mr. Kimball said, nodding his shiny head. “I know just what piece you mean. It used to be attached to that field of yours that runs along Willow Beck, right?”
“I believe so, yes,” Thomas said.
“Let me double-check our records,” Mr. Kimball said before disappearing behind a partition.
Thomas tapped his fingers lightly on the countertop in an attempt to contain his anxiety. “It can’t be,” he muttered under his breath. “You have lost any sense you may have ever had.”
“What was that, Mr. Richards?”
Thomas looked up to see Mr. Kimball coming toward him and put a smile in place. “Oh, just talking to myself, I’m afraid.”
“Ain’t no harm in that,” Mr. Kimball said. “I sometimes go all day long without another body to talk with. I’ve had some of my best conversations with my own self.” He put a folder on the counter, opened the cover, and ran his finger down the lines of neat print. “Ah, yes. I didn’t want to say as much in case I was wrong, but that there piece is owned by a Viscount—not a local, mind you. This one’s seated a cry south, I believe. Viscount of Marchent.”
“Lord Marchent,” Thomas said as he felt the blood drain from his face, his wild thoughts confirmed. “And is not the family name Sterlington?”
“The very same,” Mr. Kimball said with a smile.
Thomas took a deep breath in hopes it would restore his countenance, then let it out slowly. “I assume there must be a manager I could talk to. I, uh, I would like more information about the parcel.”
Mr. Kimball looked back at the paper. “Right. The name I have on record here as overseeing Lord Marchent’s interests is Mr. Arnold Peters. He’s a solicitor with an office on High Street. I imagine there’s a caretaker or bailiff managing the land itself, but I don’t have that name on record so Mr. Peters would be the man to talk to.”
Thomas didn’t bother unhitching Farthing from the post but instead cut through alleyways and side streets in hopes of catching the solicitor before he returned home for the evening. He reached the right office on High Street within minutes, found Mr. Peters at his desk, and began peppering him with questions about the cottage until Mr. Peters raised a hand to interrupt him.
“I’m sure I can’t understand why you are so interested in the cottage or the occupant,” Mr. Peters said, fidgeting uncomfortably with his quill. “’Tis nothing remarkable about either one.”
“The operating fields are in good order,” Thomas said, developing a feigned motive as quickly as he could in hopes it would afford him more information. “And they meet up with some acreage I’m already farming. I am wondering if Lord Marchent might be inclined to sell—”
“He is not interested in selling,” Mr. Peters interrupted.
“You’re certain?”
“I am absolutely certain,” Mr. Peters said. “He was here not three months ago, reconciling his accounts and advising the caretaker on how to manage the coming season. There was no discussion regarding any interest in selling.”
“It isn’t a large enough parcel to be very profitable for the Viscount, especially if he lives so far south.”
“It makes a small amount,” Mr. Peters said.
“Certainly not more than it takes to keep the cottage operational,” Thomas argued. “A good portion of the fields are fallow and the cottage itself would not be fit even as a hunting lodge for a Viscount. Surely Lord Marchent would entertain an offer.” If necessary, Thomas could talk Albert into making a request himself. Mr. Peters might respond better to Lord Fielding.
“Lord Marchent retains the house for sentimental reasons.” The man’s nervousness was increasing.
“Sentimental reasons,” Thomas repeated. “And so who is it that lives there? A family member perhaps?”
“Yes. She is a widow in need of some convalescence. Elderly and crippled.” He seemed to add the last part as though to dissuade Thomas from making any designs on the woman as a way to acquire the land. Thomas ignored it.
“And she has been there for how long?”
“Since the summer,” Mr. Peters answered.
Thomas had last seen Miss Sterlington in May. He had assumed she’d returned to her family estate when she left London. Why would her family send her so far north as this? And to such a confining house? Was she
alone
except for her housekeeper? “And how long will she be staying?” Thomas asked.
“Certainly I do not know nor would I be at liberty to say if I did.” The man’s nervousness was changing to irritation. “I have told you far more than you are entitled to, Mr. Richards. I’m afraid I can’t tell you anymore.”
Thomas stood, fairly towering over the man even though Thomas was not of large stature. “You have helped me quite enough,” he said, putting his hat back on before turning and striding from the office, his head miles away in a cottage off the Romanby road, thinking about a woman who would only talk with him through the door but promised him tea when he returned on Friday.
Chapter 26
“I fear it has too much cinnamon. Does it have too much cinnamon?” Amber asked, wringing her hands as Suzanne cut another bite from the piece of spice cake Amber had made. Mr. Thomas Richards was a gentleman with all manner of experience with fine foods made by better cooks than she. If it were too poor she would not serve it and settle for biscuits from a tin. At least the weather had held so as to allow him the visit.
Suzanne swallowed the bite of cake and looked at Amber. “It is the perfect amount of cinnamon. Truly, it is perhaps the most delicious cake you have ever made.”
“You are certain? You are not flattering me?”
Suzanne laughed. “I am not flattering you,” she said and took another bite.
“I shall still drizzle it with some sugar glaze.”
“That will complement it nicely.”
Amber frowned. “You said it was delicious before I mentioned the glaze. Does that mean it is not as delicious without it?”
Suzanne laughed and stood from the table. “I must say I have not seen this side of you in all these months, Amber.”
“A gentleman is coming to the house,” Amber said by way of explanation. “It is the first time I have been a hostess.”
“And yet you will stay in your room?”
“Well, of course,” Amber said. She had not for a moment considered otherwise.
“Perhaps you should simply don your cap and meet him. All of town talks of you as though you are deformed or some such thing.”
“As long as they do not know how truly deformed I am, I shall be at peace with their gossip.”
“You are not deformed. Or crippled or ill. You have simply lost your hair.”
“I have simply lost everything,” Amber clarified, hating how quickly her excitement over Mr. Richards’s visit was fading now that they were talking of her condition.
“I would suggest again that we invite Dr. Marsh from Northallerton to attend you. Perhaps he—”
Amber cut off Suzanne’s words. “I will not talk of that when we are preparing for a visitor. I want any guest in my home to be comfortable and welcome.”
Suzanne seemed to consider her words for a moment, before speaking. “I have no doubt Mr. Richards will feel welcomed. It is kind of you to attend to his comfort.”
Amber was relieved to have Suzanne drop the argument. She turned her attention to the tea set and moved the pot to the left side of the tray, then back. It was porcelain and old, which didn’t bother her or Suzanne but seemed awful now that she anticipated a gentleman seeing it. She placed the nicest cup on the nicest saucer, then moved the sugar bowl far enough from the creamer so that the dishes wouldn’t hit together when Suzanne carried the tray into the library. Last of all, Amber drizzled three slices of cake with sugar glaze and set the platter, as well as an empty plate, on the tray.
She could not explain why she wanted Mr. Richards’s experience to be comfortable, but it was all she had thought about since talking with him through the door, and while it might simply be a symptom of her loneliness, it was a welcome change to feel so energized about anything at all. When she had told Suzanne of Mr. Richards’s visit, Suzanne had informed her that he was unmarried and most certainly of her station. Amber told both Suzanne and herself that those aspects made no difference, but she feared they did. Having a eligible man in her home was exciting even if she would not see him.
Amber rearranged the tea tray three more times before there was a strong knock at the front door.
“He is here,” Amber said, wiping her hands on her apron as she looked toward the door. She hurried into the foyer and stopped, staring at the door that separated her from her visitor. Suzanne came up behind her.
“Are you certain you will not join him for tea?”
Amber did not bother answering—they had argued over the topic quite enough—and instead lifted her skirts and quickly went up the stairs. She had planned to go to her room and close the door, as she did whenever Mrs. Haribow or Mr. Dariloo came to the cottage, but instead she moved to the side of the stairway as Suzanne opened the front door and welcomed Mr. Richards, who thanked her. Amber liked that she was already familiar with his voice, which was low in timbre and strong. If it were any reflection, his bearing was equally good, and she wished she dared peek around the corner to catch a glimpse of him.
Instead, Amber listened to their exchange as Suzanne led him to the library, making it harder for her to hear what was being said. After a minute, she heard Suzanne’s footsteps cross in front of the stairs for the kitchen.
Certain Mr. Richards would be staying in the library—she could trust a gentleman to stay in the room to which he’d been invited—Amber carefully moved down four steps in hopes to hear his reaction to the cake she had made especially for him. Each stair creaked slightly but she hoped he was so intent on the records he would not notice.
Suzanne obviously did not expect to see Amber when she crossed the stairway with the tea tray and startled slightly, causing some of the dishes to hit together. Amber covered her mouth with her hand, worried Suzanne would drop the tray completely. But Suzanne recovered without incident, sent Amber an narrow look, and then repaired her expression before continuing into the library.