"Have
you ever met the Duke of Wellington?" he asked.
"No,
but I understand that he, too, is handsome and charming and possesses
an immense force of personality. Still, I fancy I could stand up to
it."
The
amber gaze raked her up and down. "I should like to see that.
Perhaps you could."
The
slow survey made her knees wobbly. Amusement danced in his eyes, and
something inside her danced, too, a darting pleasure and excitement
she hadn't felt in a long time: the thrill of flirtation.
But
it couldn't be. She was long past flirting age, and dressed like a
hag besides.
"All
the same," he went on, "I think you would not deny His
Grace a fair hearing. Would you not at least tell him what you did
and didn't want?"
"Did
he tell Napoleon his strategy?" she answered calmly enough,
though her mind was neither calm nor clear, and she wasn't sure what
she wanted.
"Miss
Oldridge, I am not trying to conquer the world," he said. "I
only want to build a canal."
She
became aware of movement, and glancing past him, noted, with mingled
relief and vexation, that the young ladies were casually meandering
this way. "Your fleet draws nigh," she said.
He
didn't look away from her. "Tell me what's wrong," he said.
"Better yet, show me: what you've invested, what you stand to
lose. Show me what you were talking about to Captain Hughes."
"You
could never understand," she said.
"Suppose
I cannot? What will it cost you? A few hours of time?"
Saturday
21 February
CREWE'S
cough this morning was low and tragic, telling Alistair that his
valet was in the throes of another one of his famous Forebodings.
He'd
had one the night before the battle of Waterloo, and blamed the
ensuing catastrophe on his master's riding out to battle without him.
Ever
since then, Crewe had been convinced he possessed clairvoyant powers.
The
tragic cough did not dampen Alistair's mood, which was cheerful,
despite his having arisen at the uncivilized hour of nine o'clock. He
saw nothing inauspicious about this day. At present, he stood shaving
in a pool of sunshine, recalling his after-dinner encounter with Miss
Oldridge with the first real pleasure he'd experienced in—Well,
he couldn't remember how long it had been.
He
remembered the moment of surprised pleasure last night, though, with
perfect clarity. He'd gone all stiff and sensitive about his curst
fame and his famous dratted injury, and she—But he didn't know
how to explain, even to himself, what she'd done. She'd meant it to
be a setdown, he supposed, reminding him that he was not the only one
who'd fought at Waterloo, not the only one injured, and certainly not
the one who'd lost or suffered most.
Even
his family, usually brutally direct with one another, tended to skirt
the subject of Waterloo when he was about. Only Gordmor, of all his
friends, referred easily and comfortably to the lame leg.
Miss
Oldridge was the first woman he'd encountered who didn't pretend he
wasn't lame and didn't get starry-eyed about his so-called heroics.
She
didn't seem to pretend much of anything or to be easily rendered
starry-eyed.
Crewe's
poignant cough called Alistair back.
"Crewe,
do you not see the sun pouring through the window?" Alistair
said patiently. "Did you fail to notice that this morning dawned
fair, with temperatures well above the freezing mark?"
"I
wish I could take heart in the weather, sir," Crewe said. "But
after such a dream." He shook his head. "It was so very
like the one I dreamt the night before Waterloo."
Alistair
paused in his shaving. "Do you mean the one where the footpad
cuts my throat and you find me in the alley as the last drops of
blood are oozing from my body? Or is it the one where I pitch off the
cliff into the sea, and you jump in to save me, but you're too late,
and I drown?"
"The
cliff, sir," said Crewe. "The sky darkened suddenly, as
before a storm, and the remaining light had a peculiar quality. It
was as if the sun hung behind a great, green glass. I remember the
light in particular as the same I dreamt before that fateful day in
June of 1815."
"I'm
not riding out to battle," Alistair said. "I'm merely
touring Longledge Hill with Miss Oldridge. You may be sure we'll have
a servant in attendance. Even in this wilderness, a lady does not go
out without protection. Doubtless she'll bring along a large groom of
menacing aspect. Should exposure to so much raw nature arouse my
passions, he will discourage me from attempting her virtue. Should
the scenery produce a similar effect upon her, I reckon I can protect
myself."
As
he returned to scraping his jaw, he tried to imagine the lady
subjecting him to amorous advances. Given her straightforward style,
he supposed she'd throw herself at him, literally. He saw her hair
tumbling down, and her face upraised to his, and her wide mouth
parted… and he nicked himself.
Crewe
went white. "Sir, I beg you will allow me to assist you."
He hurried forward and pressed a towel to the tiny speck of blood
near Alistair's ear. "Consider how much weighs upon your mind at
present. Is it not the wisest course to allow me to undertake a task
requiring one's fullest attention?"
Alistair
waved away valet and towel. "If, before Waterloo, the Duke of
Wellington could shave himself without fatal results," he said,
"I believe I can manage it before ambling along country pathways
with a levelheaded—or do I mean hardheaded?—countrywoman."
Crewe
subsided into gloomy silence, and Alistair completed his shaving
without interruption or injury.
Once
the razor was put away and the less hazardous business of dressing
commenced, Crewe grew talkative again. Last night, while the master
was out, he'd gone to a tavern the local servants frequented, and
continued gathering information. He had found out why Lord Gordmor's
agent had been turned away, and this news confirmed Alistair's own
impression of the situation on Longledge Hill.
About
the Oldridges, on the other hand, Crewe had learnt nothing new.
LORD
Hargate's heroic son was bored witless.
Mirabel
told herself she should have expected it. One hour into the riding
tour she was reproaching herself for agreeing to show him her world,
especially now, when the landscape was mainly brown, grey, and the
drabbest greens.
He
could never see it as she did.
Few
men could.
Even
in Longledge, few truly understood why she'd given more than a decade
of her life to this place. Few had any inkling how much she'd given
up: the prime of her young womanhood, along with those youthful hopes
and dreams. She'd given up as well her one chance at love, because
the man she loved was not ready to relinquish his hopes and dreams to
make a life with her here.
She
had never meant her life to turn out this way.
She'd
begun because she had no choice. She'd believed Papa would improve in
time, but it never happened. He let all those about him do as they
liked. As you'd expect, some took advantage of him. While she was in
London, his incompetent—and possibly dishonest—estate
manager had made chaos of estate affairs and in a few years nearly
destroyed what it had taken generations to build.
At
first, Mirabel had taken charge out of necessity. There was no one
else to do it. But as time passed, she developed a passion for the
land not altogether unlike her father's passion for plants. While he
pondered theories of botanical reproduction, she built an arcadia.
She
replaced outmoded and inefficient agricultural practices with modern
ones, increased farm production, rebuilt the estate village, and
began restoring the timber her father had allowed to be nearly
decimated.
But
to Mr. Carsington, her thriving plantation was only a stand of trees.
Her modern cottages were rustic dwellings. Her cultivation methods
had something tedious to do with turnips and corn. Her livestock were
a lot of boring animals.
Now,
as they halted to view the uncultivated slopes of Longledge Hill,
Mirabel knew he wouldn't drink in its beauty as she did, or take any
more note of it than he'd done any other sight she'd indicated. He'd
give it a careless glance, paste a politely indifferent expression on
his face, and wait for her to finish talking.
He
didn't even remark on how clean and fresh the air was. Why should he?
Inhaling the coal smoke-laden air of London for most of his life had
killed his sense of smell.
Living
there had deadened his other senses as well. He was deaf, dumb, and
blind to rural life's beauties and joys.
She'd
wasted her time. She'd been a fool to hope he'd understand what she
was trying to protect.
A
low rumble of a voice cut through the haze of frustration and
resentment thickening in her head.
"If
your bailiff is incompetent, Miss Oldridge, why do you not find
another? Do you keep him out of sentiment? It cannot be for his
skill, if he wants so much managing."
Her
gaze swiveled sharply to him. Her astonishment must have shown,
because he smiled and added, "Did you think I wasn't attending?"
It
was a small, crooked smile, and it made her heart go a little
crooked, too, and beat erratically.
As
though sensing Mirabel's agitation, her mare Sophy edged away from
Mr. Carsington's gelding.
"I
thought you had gone to sleep," Mirabel said.
"I
was thinking," he said.
"Remarkable,"
she said. "That never occurred to me."
"I
admit it is unusual," he said. "Those who know me will say
I'm inclined to act first and think later. But I'm trying to mend my
ways."
"I
was unaware you had ways in want of mending," she said. "I'd
thought all the Carsingtons were paragons."
"The
paragons are my two older brothers."
"But
you are the famous hero."
His
mouth twisted. "I merely contrived not to disgrace myself during
the short time in which I fought."
"You
are far too modest. You risked your own life several times, to save
others."
He
gave a short laugh. "That's what men who don't think do. We
plunge in without considering the consequences. It hardly seems right
to call sheer recklessness 'heroic.' However, considering my complete
lack of experience; I will take credit for not getting in anybody's
way or killing any of my compatriots by accident."
Mirabel
wondered why he was so deeply uncomfortable about any mention of his
wartime experience. Though he kept his voice light, she'd caught the
bitter undertone. She studied his face, but he was on guard now, and
his strongly sculpted features told her nothing.
"You're
impulsive, you mean," she said. "That is the fault you are
trying to mend."
"If
only that were the sum total of my faults," he said. "I
fear I'm not one of the Carsington paragons, and not likely to become
one."
"I
hope you do not," she said. "You are trouble enough as it
is, even in your desperately flawed state."
He
was a greater trouble than Mirabel was prepared for.
This
day's journey was futile. He'd never see what she'd achieved or have
any inkling of what she'd sacrificed to achieve it. He wouldn't
understand why she'd bothered. She didn't know how to explain about
her bailiff, why she supervised him so closely. She was not about to
delve into ancient history or explain an anxiety even she wasn't sure
was completely rational. Those were private matters, and he was a
stranger, a London-bred stranger.
He
was incapable of seeing the value of a place like Longledge Hill, and
so could never comprehend the harm his canal would do.
But
this wasn't the worst of her troubles.
While
he'd looked and seen nothing, Mirabel had caught a glimpse of the man
behind the flawlessly groomed exterior.
The
glimpse made her want to know more.
She
knew this was a bad sign, and ordered herself not to probe further.