Authors: Amanda McCabe
Kate smiled at her. "I thought you hated the idea of balls and routs."
"Oh, I certainly do!" Christina pulled a horrified face. "That's exactly why I wouldn't want to stay with Charles and Mary. Society is their whole existence. But London has bookshops and lending libraries. And museums, and lectures! I have heard that botanists come from all over Europe, even the Indies and America, to present their work." She gave an utterly rapturous sigh, one an ordinary girl might have given over receiving vouchers to Almack's.
"Yes. There are museums," Kate murmured.
"It must be so absolutely splendid. Can you tell me about it, Mrs. Brown?"
Kate shook her head. "I fear I had no time to see any museums or hear any lectures while I was there." In truth, she had seen only her room, the route she would walk to the agency, and the secondhand bookshop. "I heard that the British Museum is quite splendid, though. I'm sure you will see it when you go to Town for your Season, Lady Christina. The Elgin Marbles are all the rage."
Christina turned her face away, folding her arms across her stomach. All Kate could see was her wild banner of hair, the stiff set of her shoulders. "Mother says that when I make my bow I will have no time for foolishness such as lectures and botanical societies. She says that once I see how grand fine gowns and balls can be, I will forget my 'distractions.'"
Christina's voice was low and bitter, and Kate wasn't quite sure what to say in response. She wanted so much to reassure Christina, but then again she was hired to perpetuate just such ideas, was she not? To teach Christina poise and manners and grace, to lead her to forget her 'strange' pastimes.
She didn't have to say anything, though. Christina leaped abruptly to her feet and turned back to the path. "Shall we go on, Mrs. Brown? We can take a smoother way back home, if you like."
Kate could only follow. It seemed that their brief moment of incipient confidence was gone. "That would be nice."
They walked along, slower this time but in silence, until they came to a wider lane in a less wild-looking space. Cultivated fields spread on either side, enclosed by more of those low, dark gray stone walls. Neat fields of wheat, barley, and oilseed rape gave way to more flocks of those unnerving sheep, woolly groups that meandered together in placid formations. Kate watched them warily, in case they decided to rush at them en masse, but Christina didn't even seem to notice. She just strode along, deep in her own thoughts.
They crossed over a twisting river, climbing up the slope of a rounded wooden bridge. Kate paused to lean over and peer at the dancing water, so clear that she could almost see the rocky bed. The hazy sunlight cast glasslike shards on the eddying currents.
Christina leaned over, too, staring down as if to glimpse what Kate was so fascinated by. "This is the River Bain. It flows into the lake called Semerwater close by."
"It seems so peaceful," Kate murmured. "As calm as a Venice canal in winter."
Christina laughed. "Right now, it is! But I have seen it in storms, when it overflows its banks and even the hill sheep cower from it."
"Truly?" Kate murmured. "More like a canal during
acqua alta,
then."
"I can show you the lake one day," Christina offered. "It's a lovely walk up there. And there's even a legend associated with it."
"A legend?" Kate asked, intrigued. She always did enjoy a big romantic, operatic story, and this land obviously had the potential to be full of them. Perhaps it was not an accident she had landed here, after all. "Can you tell me?"
Christina nodded, and turned to continue their walk. As Kate followed, she listened to Christina's tale. "The old story tells of a city that lies beneath Semerwater. Long ago, there was a rich city, and a poor man with great spiritual powers came there. He searched in vain for food and shelter among all the grand mansions, but only a poor laborer took him in. The man stood by the laborer's tiny cottage high up on a hill, and cursed the city by saying, 'Semerwater rise, Semerwater sink, and swallow all the city save this little house.' And a great flood swallowed the city whole."
"An engulfed city? Like Atlantis?"
Christina shrugged. "I suppose so. Some of our tenants say they have seen things beneath the waters of the lake. But I have been there many times and all I've seen is mud."
Kate laughed. "Mud, eh? Well, I should like to see it nevertheless."
They climbed up to the top of yet another hill. Below them stretched another twisting pattern of low walls, a darker gray against the greenish gray of the landscape. But the low hum of the wind was broken by the rich rise and fall of masculine voices, the scrape of tools against stone. A group of farm laborers were mending a section of wall, calling to each other as they mortared and piled the dark stones taken from a big pile in a wagon.
Kate shielded her eyes against the pale glare of the sun to watch them. She certainly had a fresh respect for honest labor after her long odyssey over the hills today!
Then her breath sucked in on a harsh, shocked note as she realized that one of the men was
not
a common laborer. It was Mr. Lindley himself, hauling a stone into place. He had obviously been at the task for a long while, for he was stripped to his shirtsleeves. The soft muslin sleeves were pushed back over his forearms, the light glinting on the pale brown hair on the bronzed skin. The cloth clung damply to his back and shoulders, and there was the fine sheen of sweat on his brow. He lowered the stone into place and stepped back to wipe his sleeve over his forehead. His hair waved back onto his neck, a darker brown than usual with his sweat. There was no sign of his walking stick from the night before.
One of the men made some sort of jest, and Michael laughed heartily. His grin flashed white, like the pirate god she had first imagined him. He threw his head back, showing his strong, sun-browned throat, the barest hint of curling brown hair at the vee where the lacings of his shirt were loosened.
Kate stared at him, fascinated. The scene was quite unreal—she had never heard of a nobleman working in the fields before, laboring at mending fences. The elegant Sir Julian Kirkwood
never
would. Yet somehow Michael Lindley belonged here, in the cool, fresh air, the muscles of his strong shoulders straining at his thin shirt. Her fingers tingled to run through his disordered hair, to trail over those shoulders and that long back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex beneath her caress....
She couldn't breathe. She had thought her attraction to him last night was a mere product of the enchantment of moonlit gardens, of having not been around attractive young men for many months. Still, she could not help but imagine what those strong hands would feel like against her own skin.
She was a fool. For here, in full daylight, his enchantment was even stronger.
Kate shook her head hard and looked away, back over her shoulder at the way they had come. Maybe she should go dunk her head in the obviously chilly waters of the Bain. Anything to insert some sense into her foolish, schoolgirl thoughts. "Maybe we should turn back," she said.
But Christina had already seen the men and was waving her hand over her head. "Michael!" she shouted. "Hello!"
Christina dashed off down the hill, giving Kate no choice but to follow.
"San Marco, give me strength," she muttered, trailing along in Christina's wake.
* * *
Michael lifted the heavy stone into place on the wall, his muscles burning and shifting with the effort. How he loved this! The honest sweat of real labor, the feel of the sun on his bare head, the talk and laughter of the men around him. Most gentlemen would never lower themselves to mending fences—he knew that very well; his old friends and his brother would fall down with shock if they could see him now. But Michael could not care one whit. It was at moments like this that he felt truly alive. Could truly forget.
After the accident, he had been so damnably weak, unable even to stand up from his bed and walk across the floor. Now he reveled in the feel of muscles and sinews that worked, that obeyed his commands and could actually lift stones and wield a scythe. The sweat that trickled in long rivulets down his spine was real and honestly come by.
And
the hard labor drove away thoughts of Kate Brown. Almost.
Michael pushed the damp hair back from his brow and turned away to reach for a new stone. Last night, when they parted in the garden, he had gone up to his chamber as usual but could not sleep for hours. She was intriguing, a beautiful puzzle, a rose-scented conundrum. He wanted to talk to her, to coax the story of her life from her, to learn why her dark eyes held such sadness.
And
he wanted to kiss her pink, lush mouth, to taste her, to feel her slim body under his hands, her satin hair clinging to his fingers. Would she sigh and melt into him, pulling him against her? Would she whisper enticing Italian love words?
Michael laughed at his own ridiculous fantasies, and lifted the stone high before crashing it into place. It was past time he made a visit to Becky at the Tudor Arms. She enjoyed an energetic romp, was always laughing and joking. She was buxom and red-haired, not slim and dark, but she held no secrets in her twinkling blue eyes. She was as uncomplicated as a summer stream. He liked Becky—yet somehow the thought of visiting her again left him strangely disappointed.
"Michael!" he heard someone shout. "Hello!"
He peered up, squinting against the light, and saw Christina dashing down the hill toward him. She wore no hat, of course, and her brown cloak billowed around her like a swallow's wings. He smiled at her, and waved.
Then he saw the woman who followed sedately behind his sister.
Mrs. Brown.
She wore her gray pelisse again, and her blue bonnet. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, almost as if she wanted to flee. And he could hardly blame her. She had probably never expected to see her employer, an earl's son, working like a common laborer. She was a
lady.
And he was a sweaty mess. Michael looked around for his coat, but it was draped over the side of the cart along with his neckcloth. Too far away to grab quickly—Christina and Mrs. Brown were nearer every second. He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing the damp waves back, and pulled the laces of his shirt together.
The man next to him, one of his tenants, Mr. Herrick, gave a low, admiring whistle. "Who is the beauty with Lady Christina?"
Michael shot him an irritated glance. He had the flashing, irrational thought that the man was lecherously gaping at Mrs. Brown. But Mr. Herrick's gaze held no disrespect, only admiration—which was only natural when a man beheld beauty like Kate Brown's.
And he had no right to be jealous of anything connected to her. "No right at all."
"She is the new governess at Thorn Hill," he said. "Mrs. Brown is her name."
"Governess, eh?" Mr. Herrick said with a chuckle. "You are a fortunate man, Mr. Lindley, sir."
Christina reached his side then, and leaned against the wall to survey their work. "You had better hope Mother doesn't see you, Michael. Laboring like a common farmer!" She gave a mocking
tsk.
Michael laughed and reached out to pull at one of her loose curls. "She won't. She's closeted in the drawing room with Lady Ross, is she not?"
"She was when I left."
"And why are you not doing your duty to her guests, Tina?"
Christina tossed her hair back unconcernedly. "I had a most dreadful headache."
"Excruciating, I see," he teased.
"Mrs. Brown was longing for a walk. I had to oblige her."
Mrs. Brown, whose steps were much slower than Christina's, came up to them just in time to hear this.
Her lips, those lips he had so recently fantasized about, curved in a wry smile. "And very obliging Lady Christina is, too. Good day to you, Mr. Lindley."
"And good day to you, Mrs. Brown. You mustn't let my wild sister bully you. She would walk to York Minster and back again if she could."
Mrs. Brown laughed, and for one instant the serious, sad set of her lovely face melted away to reveal her true youth and the sparkle of her dark eyes. "Oh, never fear, sir! I am not easily bullied. And we did not walk nearly that far, only over the river and up a prodigious number of hills." She paused to gaze back behind her, to the looming, heather-covered slopes. "I could hardly complain. It is such beautiful country."
"There, Michael!" Christina crowed. "She enjoyed our walk. And I find my headache is quite vanished in the fresh air." With that, she whirled around and strolled off to chat with some of the farmers, who had taken the opportunity of a short respite from their labors. They laughed with Christina, whom most of them had known since she was a child, and they watched Mrs. Brown with shy admiration.
Michael was hardly aware of all this, though. He could see only Mrs. Brown. She stared out at the rough, strange landscape as if mesmerized. Her lips were slightly parted, her pale cheeks flushed with the exercise and the crisp air.
"Yes," Michael answered quietly. "It
is
a lovely place. Most people can't see that, though. They just think it is desolate, too windy and rough. Too gray."
"I thought it was gray, too, when I first arrived," she said, in her faraway voice. "But now I see that's not true. There is green, and white, and purple. And the river is silver—a dancing silver." She turned back to him. The smile was vanished from her lips, but it still lingered in her eyes. "Do you believe in spirits, Mr. Lindley?"