Regina Scott (6 page)

What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he see what Blackcliff had to offer?

She released his arm and put both hands on her hips. “Come now, Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam of Blackcliff. How can you call this nothing?”

H
ow could Trevor explain? He could see the beauty of the place—wild, untrammeled. He could imagine riding Icarus along those narrow paths, hunting in the shaded woods, fishing in the crystal streams. If he’d wanted no more than a warm fire, good food and loyal companions, Blackcliff would have satisfied. But he wanted more. Blackcliff might be Gwen Allbridge’s world, but his was bigger and hundreds of miles away.

Still, she regarded him, feathery brows up, slender body poised, waiting for him to agree with her assessment, to offer praise.

The best he could do was smile. “I never meant to denigrate your home. It’s a fine estate and a lovely village. It’s simply not what I planned.”

She cocked her head, and the cold mountain air whipped a coppery strand of hair across her face. “What did you plan?”

He gazed off over the fells, shadows against the blue sky. “Farmland, tenants.” He snorted. “At the very least an orchard or two.”

She straightened and shrugged as if those did not seem so important to her. “You’ll find some of that in the lower valley, but it’s too rocky here for more than a small garden.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

She waved her hand, sweeping away his concerns. “There are far more interesting things here in any event.”

Trevor eyed her. “Such as?”

She raised her chin. “We have a fine church. St. Martin’s was built in the thirteenth century, you know.”

So even his church was old and no doubt needed work. “A venerable establishment, to be sure.”

She laughed. “Your words are praising, sir, but I see the look in your eyes. Very well. I suppose St. Martin’s may not be all that interesting to someone of your sophistication. So, tell me, where would you prefer to live?”

“London,” he readily replied.

This time he was the one expecting a quick agreement. London was the capital, the seat of government, the hub of commerce. Anyone who was anyone spent at least part of the year in London.

To his surprise, she wrinkled her nose. “London? Why? You must see that Blackcliff is far and away superior.”

Trevor raised a brow. “And on what do you base such a sweeping statement? Have you ever visited London?”

“Once,” she admitted with a shudder that set the pink ribbon on her long green coat to shaking. “Mother went up to see a cousin who was being presented, and I accompanied her. And that was quite enough, I assure you. The air is filled with that nasty soot, carriages clog the roads, street vendors wake you in the wee hours to shout about milk and posies. No, thank you!”

With the exception of the soot from the coal fires, he found those things more interesting than irksome. “And were you given no opportunity to experience the culture? London boasts lofty architecture, galleries of fine art and sculpture, exceptional dressmakers and expert tailors.”

“Ah, shopping,” she said wisely. “Come with me to Blackcliff village, sir, and see if you don’t find it equally diverting.”

He’d seen enough of the little village riding through it last night and today. The entire collection of buildings could be hidden in one corner of London, and no one would notice. Instead of looking at aged churches, he should be in the library, reading documents, checking calculations. He had to decide what to do about Blackcliff, determine how soon he could head back to London. “I’m sure the village is delightful, but I’m certain your father would prefer that I return to the manor.”

He thought surely she’d agree with that. She’d been quick to support her father on every other occasion. Instead, she shook her head doggedly.

“But you can’t hide away in Blackcliff Hall,” she urged, taking a step closer as if to make her case. The scent of roses drifted toward him on the breeze. “The most important men in the village wish to meet you.”

She knew how to flatter his vanity, he’d give her that. Some part of him felt smugly pleased that the local men would want to meet him, perhaps seek his counsel. But why bother even making their acquaintance if he wasn’t going to stay?

She must have seen his hesitation, for she slipped her hand into his and smiled up at him. “You could ride Icarus,” she said as if offering a bribe to a recalcitrant child.

He chuckled. “I could ride Icarus back to London, as well.”

She pulled free. “Yes, you could, but you’d miss all the fun. I’ll meet you at the bottom.” She lifted her cotton skirts above the tops of her boots and started down the slope, as graceful as a bird skimming the clouds.

With a last look at his empty land, Trevor turned and followed.

He did not ride Icarus, though she paused by the stables expectantly. A gentleman didn’t ride while a lady walked. He’d only done so this morning because of the village procession. When Trevor made
no move to call for Rob Winslow to saddle his horse, she led him around the side of the house, across the front garden and through a side gate onto a pebbled footpath.

“You see?” she said as she shut the iron gate behind him. “You even have your own private entrance to the village.” She nodded to where a stone bridge arched over a narrow stream that bubbled along a rocky trough among ashes and oaks. “This will bring you out right next to the George. And you couldn’t ask for a more beautiful route.”

With autumn leaves drifting down across the clear water, the path was a picturesque sight. Yet so were the horse races at Ascot on opening day, each mount groomed to a sheen, every lady poised and polished as she watched, every gentleman eager for the outcome of the races.

“You are well versed in the beauties of Blackcliff,” Trevor said as they crossed the bridge and headed for the inn. “However, you must admit that the village lacks some of the amenities one might expect of a city like London.”

She frowned. “Such as?”

“No gentlemen’s clubs,” he suggested.

“I’m certain you will never lack for manly company at the George,” she countered. They were passing the establishment now, and she waved to Mrs. Billings, who was out on the front steps haggling with a farmer over a wagon full of milk cans. “Besides, do you ever truly know the members of your
club? Would they stick by you through thick and thin?”

She had a point. The members of White’s had voted on three separate occasions before agreeing to admit him to London’s most famous gentlemen’s club, and he still didn’t feel welcome. But going to a club was as much about being seen in the right circles as it was about making friends.

“Still,” Trevor said, “you have no daily news.”

“Just ask Mrs. Bentley,” she replied, skirting the inn and starting up the lane that led to the other end of the village. “She keeps up with everyone.”

He imagined she might, more quickly and with less rancor than
The Times.
“But no balls or routs.”

She cast him a quick glance. “We have a lovely assembly in the market hall every quarter. The next one is only two weeks away.”

She had an answer for everything, it seemed. “Yet no opportunity to participate in government,” he finished, certain she’d have no answer for that. Parliament, after all, was in London.

She shook her head solemnly. “I fear, Sir Trevor, that you will have no end of opportunity to participate in government. And we should start with David Newton, immediately.”

He was ready to ask who this Newton fellow might be when he realized where she was leading him. A bell tower rose over the cottages and trees, a cross etched in its side.

St. Martin’s Church was a long building with the
three-story tower at one end and a two-story chapel on the other. While the tower had been whitewashed, the stones of the rest of the church were dark; lichen and old moss speckled them gray and green. Only a few narrow and clear leaded-glass windows broke up the expanse of wall. Gravestones poked up at odd angles among the rough-trimmed grass of the churchyard, and wind moaned under the pitched eaves. He imagined it wasn’t hard to ponder a dismal eternity in such a place.

The vicarage was just as cheerless, being a square gray box of a building set off to one side. A plain-faced woman with honey-colored hair sleeked back in a bun opened the door to Gwen’s knock. Her brows shot up over her slate-gray eyes.

“Good morning, Ruth,” Gwen said, moving into the long central corridor of the vicarage as if well acquainted with the shadowed place. “May I present Sir Trevor Fitzwilliam? He’s the new owner of Blackcliff. Sir Trevor, Miss Ruth Newton.”

Trevor bowed as Miss Newton turned scarlet and murmured her delight in meeting him. Gwen, however, wandered down the corridor, peering in this room and that. She turned to her red-faced friend with a puzzled smile. “Where’s your brother? I know he wanted to meet Sir Trevor.”

Ruth Newton managed to close the door behind Trevor and smoothed down her charcoal-colored skirts with one hand. Of the local women Trevor had met, she was by far the best dressed. The high
waist and straight fall of the elegant gown might have come from a London modiste.

“He had to see to Mrs. Wheaton this morning,” she murmured. “Her youngest isn’t doing well. Croup again.”

Immediately Gwen’s face fell, and she hurried back. “I’ll send some of Mother’s syrup straight away.”

Ruth Newton sagged as if a burden had been lifted. “Oh, thank you, Miss Allbridge. I’m certain that would make all the difference.”

“Of course!” She reached out and squeezed her friend’s hand. “And how many times have I asked you to call me Gwen?”

The woman’s gaze darted to Trevor, then fell. “I’m sure I should not be so familiar.”

“Nonsense,” Gwen said, releasing her. “Now be a dear and find some of your famous sweet buns. I’m certain Sir Trevor must be famished from all this walking.”

Trevor tried to demur, but Miss Newton hurried off to the kitchen as if glad for an escape, and Gwen drew him into the cozy sitting room and directed him toward a comfortable upholstered chair by the fire. The worn arms and sagging seat told him others had warmed themselves here. It ought to feel shabby, yet he found himself leaning back with a sigh approaching contentment.

He thought she meant to sit, as well, but she waved a hand to tell him to keep his seat, then went
to pick up a small table and move it across the room to his side. “Ruth is one of the best cooks in the upper valley,” she confided. “She’s also an expert with the needle. She makes all her own clothes and gives the rest of us advice, as well.”

Was she trying to match him up with the woman? As the sister of the local minister and keeper of his house, Ruth Newton probably had the respect of the village. But Trevor had no interest in a woman so self-effacing she couldn’t stand her ground in her own home.

Of course, he was beginning to realize, it would take a stronger will than his to withstand Gwen’s determination.

“You mustn’t praise me so,” Ruth Newton protested as she carried a wooden tray into the room. She hesitated only a moment as if surprised to find her furniture rearranged, then set the tray on the table beside Trevor. “Sir Trevor will think I take on airs. Tea, Sir Trevor?”

Her hand hovered over the china teapot patterned in red roses, and she and Gwen watched him expectantly. What was so significant about a cup of tea? Another time he might have graciously refused, but the walk had made him thirsty.

“Certainly,” he said, and Ruth Newton took a deep breath and set about pouring.

“Ruth and her brother arrived here three years ago,” Gwen supplied, accepting a cup from her friend. “Our last minister served for thirty years.”

That had to have seemed endless in this place, but then he supposed most ministers hoped for such a tenure. “Admirable.”

“We are very grateful for the living,” Miss Newton put in, fingers gripping her cup. She swallowed even though Trevor was certain she hadn’t taken a sip yet. “Not that we didn’t have choices. David did very well at Oxford, you understand.”

“We are fortunate to have him,” Gwen put in loyally. She scooted to the edge of her seat just as her father had done and reached out to pick up the plate of buns from the tea tray and offer it to Trevor.

“Try one,” she urged. “They’re sublime.”

He wasn’t hungry, but they were both watching him again. So, he picked up a bun and made a show of taking a bite. The pastry was buttery and flaky, the center flavored with almonds.

He smiled as he swallowed. “They are excellent. My compliments, Miss Newton.”

She blushed again, but Gwen sat back in her chair and grinned as if well satisfied with herself.

Down the corridor came the sound of a door opening and closing, then the thump of boots hurrying toward them. A slender man of medium height with wind-tossed brown hair and a bottle nose strode into the room. His gray eyes were wide and not a little panicked.

“Sir Trevor! I came as soon as I could.” He extended his right hand while trying to push back his hair with the other.

Trevor rose and shook his hand. “Mr. Newton, a pleasure. And no need for concern. Your charming sister has kept me company. You are fortunate to have such a talented sibling.”

“Talented?” He glanced at his sister as if he’d never seen her before.

Ruth Newton raised her chin. “Sir Trevor enjoyed my sweet buns.”

“Oh.” The minister laughed nervously. “Of course. They are a favorite in the village.” He sobered. “But you mustn’t think we pride ourselves on them, Sir Trevor. Pride goeth before a fall, as I’m sure you know.” He glanced about as if for support, and his sister nodded gravely.

“I’m sure Sir Trevor understands,” Gwen said with a comforting smile. “And how is little Tim Wheaton?”

Newton’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed. “Not well. The other children haven’t come down with it, thank God, but he coughs so hard, so often, I daresay the rest of the household isn’t getting much sleep. I thought of your mother’s horehound syrup, but I didn’t know how much you had left.” He glanced at Trevor as if suspecting he had need of it.

“I’ve a spare bottle,” Gwen said. “I’ll send it round as soon as we return to the Hall. And I’ll check on them later.”

Care coiled around the room, like fine perfume, embracing her and the Newtons. If he stayed, would
it reach him, too? He was surprised to feel the prick of longing.