A Heart Revealed Page 17

Lady Fielding felt he should send a letter asking for audience, but with the weather so unpredictable he feared he could be delayed a week or more awaiting her response. Mrs. Chandler’s housekeeper, Mrs. Miller, came to town only once a week, or so the vicar had told him. He hoped Mrs. Chandler would be less inclined to turn him away if he were upon her doorstep, even if he were uncomfortable with the demanding nature of the visit.

  He brought Farthing—his horse named by Lizabeth—to a stop at the bottom of the steps and jumped down before tying her to a post. He knocked three times on the heavy wood door before stepping back and waiting for it to be answered. It wasn’t an impressive cottage from any perspective, but he could see it was solid and there was smoke rising from the chimney. In addition to hoping Mrs. Chandler would let him in, he hoped it was warm. He was quite chilled from his ride despite today being the best day to travel these last two weeks.

  He waited some time before stepping forward and knocking a second time. When more time passed and no one answered his knock, he found himself in quite a quandary.

  Because of the distance from town and the unreliable nature of traveling so far this time of year, never mind the urgency he felt about the business that had brought him there in the first place, he was not much inclined to simply come back another day.

  Thomas stepped around the side of the cottage. Perhaps Mrs. Miller was out back, though the temperature was such that he did not imagine she would be lounging about. He stepped through some of the sodden patches of brown grass around the edge of the house, but eventually found himself behind the cottage. There was a privy, a smokehouse, a coalshed, and what looked like a cellar entrance all close to the kitchen door.

  He knocked again. Perhaps this woman whispered about in town was deaf and had not heard his knocks from the front of the house. Rumor had it that she was a cripple too, but certainly her housekeeper wasn’t.

  The back door was not answered either. What poor luck on his part if both occupants had gone to town. If they were gone, however, could he let himself inside to look around on his own? As soon as he thought it, he rejected the idea. His morality would not allow such a trespass despite how much his lack of patience encouraged it.

  He spied a path leading away from the cottage and decided to follow it. Perhaps there was another outbuilding where the residents of the cottage were occupied. The further he moved from the house, however, the more discouraged he felt. Why could not one part of this transfer be easy? Just one?

  Chapter 24

  The footsteps retreated but Amber did not relax one whit until they had disappeared completely. She did not think she had ever been so terrified as when this unwelcome guest had pounded on the door just two hours after Suzanne had left for town.

  She had been in the library sketching out a pattern for a new shift she wanted to attempt to make from fabric Suzanne would be purchasing in town when the knock came. A man, based on the heaviness of his knock. Amber had immediately run for the kitchen and sat in the corner near the washstand where she could pull her knees to her chest and know she would be unseen through any window or door.

  In all the months of living in Step Cottage no one had come when Suzanne was gone, and Amber could barely breathe until after she heard him leave—toward the stables, she thought. Did that mean he would come back to the house?

  Once Amber was sure he was gone, for the moment at least, she crawled to the kitchen door and lifted the wooden plank into the braces on either side to secure it, then hurried to the front door and turned the lock before going about the house and pulling all the curtains closed.

  Despite her overwhelming fear, there was an edge of excitement to the situation as well.

  “Don’t be a goose,” she chided herself as returned to the kitchen. Suzanne would be laughing if she could see Amber’s actions and read her silly thoughts.

  She pulled back the curtain over the washbasin just a bit to survey the yard, then squealed when the long legs of a man came into view. She dropped the curtain and resumed her position in the corner with her hands over her mouth, torn between laughing at herself and crying in fear. What if he were a highwayman come to murder her? And yet why would anyone come to Step Cottage for such a thing; there were plenty of people to murder not so far from the road.

  Perhaps he was a bandit, hiding from the law! She nearly screamed again when there was another knock at the door beside her, sending her heart racing faster than she thought possible.

  “Madam?” a man’s voice called. “I have seen that your carriage and horse are not in the stable, which means your housekeeper must have gone to town today. Please forgive me for such an inopportune visit, but it truly is of great importance that I speak with you. I am in need of your assistance with a matter of business.”

  Amber didn’t move, but clearly this man was not a highwayman or a bandit; he had all the high tones of genteel breeding. The realization only gave her a modest degree of comfort. He was still a stranger—a male stranger no less—and she was still alone.

  Yet if his assertions were correct, he needed her help and that made her curious at the very least. It had been a long time since she had conversed with anyone but Suzanne, let alone a man. In London, Amber had simpered and flattered her way through so many conversations with so many men; could she not talk with this one man now when he was in need of her assistance? The idea made her heart flutter. She was quick to remember that she was not Amber Sterlington, Rage of the Season. She was exiled and different in every way. But then, she did not need to flatter this man. She simply needed to talk to him. Could she do it?

  “Madam,” he said again, his tone sounding less hopeful. “I saw the curtain move. I have come all the way from Romanby to look into your book room and can promise that if I could obtain access for just a short while I shan’t bother you again.”

  Book room? There was a book room at Hampton Grove where her father’s bailiff worked on the ledgers and kept documents associated with the estate. Here at the cottage, she assumed Mr. Dariloo kept those records at his own house, though she had seen past documents in the library from a time when the records were kept in residence. This had once been a caretaker’s house according to Mr. Dariloo, and the records had remained even when the cottage and connecting lands had been sold to Amber’s father.

  Her neck was hot and her heart still racing when she made the momentous decision to respond to the gentleman outside. There was a door between them, and a braced one at that, so there was no fear he would see her. With such protections in place, she simply could not resist the temptation.

  She lowered her hands from her mouth and moved on her hands and knees to the doorway. “What need have you for the items of the book room, sir?”

  He was quiet for several seconds before he responded. “I understand that this house was once part of an estate that was divided out over time and sold. My father purchased one of those parcels, and I am seeking to get the legalities properly settled. I’m looking for a sale agreement and have looked everywhere in the county that might possibly have a copy except this place.”

  Amber slowly stood, then pressed her back against the door and straightened the knit cap on her head. She had three of them now and rarely bothered with the lacy caps anymore. “The records here are not current, sir.”

  He paused for a moment. “I’m afraid I did not understand you through the door, Madam.”

  She cleared her throat and spoke louder this time. “Mr. Dariloo manages the land and keeps the current records.”

  Another pause. “I am not looking for current records, but for records from twenty years ago.”

  “Well, the latest records in my library are from ninety-four, I think.” She had had ample time to peruse the shelves of the library, though she certainly hadn’t read the estate records. “And I believe the earliest of them was sixty-nine.”

  Again he paused before he replied, and she wondered at how often he did so. “I-I would be most obliged if you would allow me the opportunity t
o look at the documents to see if I may find the transaction in question. I believe the record was made in ninety, when the parcel in question was sold to my father.”

  Amber was surprised at how much she wished she could help him. His interest seemed sincere and his presence was wonderfully diverting. Regardless, she could not bring herself to let him in. “I am afraid your timing is quite poor, sir,” she said. “My, uh, housekeeper is in town, and it would be most improper for you to come inside with no one to attend me.”

  “Might I be so forward as to ask your name and station that I might address you properly as Madam or . . . perhaps as Miss? My name is Thomas Richards. My brother is Baron Fielding. He holds title to a parcel of land that connects to the eastern border of your property.”

  My name? Amber’s mind spun, trying to remember the name she had decided upon for her stay. She was to be a widow, she remembered that much, and disliking of company. If she sounded too agreeable would it conflict with the reputation Suzanne had shared in town? Amber had delayed an awkward amount of time before she recalled the information and answered his question.

  “You may call me Mrs. Chandler. I am a widow.” She rolled her eyes at how stupid that sounded. Six months out of society and she couldn’t maintain the simplest of conversations. Besides, why was he asking her name so directly? It was highly improper for him to be so forward. But she had answered him all the same, and she couldn’t deny she had been equally curious as to his identity. Perhaps him talking through a door to a widow in the country was as unusual to him as it was for her to be talking through the same door to a man of gentle birth. Surely conventions could be set aside for such unique circumstances as this.

  “Uh, my condolences,” he said, though it took her a moment to realize that he was referring to her deceased husband. How very considerate of him.

  “And you think the record you seek is here?” Amber asked.

  “Yes, and it is of great importance that I find it. Would it be at all possible for me to come in and look through the records?”

  She had already told him that she was home alone and could most certainly not let him in. Beyond that, she felt no reason to refuse his request. It was simple enough to fulfill, only not today.

  “My housekeeper shall be here the day after next. If you would be so kind as to return then, I shall see that you have full use of the library for as long as you desire.” Only when she finished did she realize that as a widow she would not need a chaperone. She frowned, but could not reverse her insistence.

  “That is very kind of you,” he said, but the disappointment in his tone made her frown deepen. “I shall return on Friday then. What time would you like me to arrive?”

  Amber calculated how long it would take to bake a cake, dust the library, and ensure Mr. Richards enough time to travel from Romanby and back without risk of being caught in the dark. “Eleven?” she asked. “I can have some tea and cake for you.”

  “I shan’t need such consideration,” he said. “I shall return as you said, at eleven on Friday, assuming the weather holds.”

  Imagining that he was turning to leave, Amber found herself eager to keep him talking. She faced the door and placed a hand upon it, though it seemed an overly dramatic gesture. “I am sorry you have had to journey so far, sir,” she said, hoping he could hear her sincerity.

  He was quiet again, perhaps so angry at her refusal to let him in that he needed time to better control his words. “Thank you,” he said. “It was nice to meet you . . . Mrs. Chandler.”

  “And I am most pleased to meet you . . . or, well, talk with you, Mr. Richards. I will look forward to seeing you on Friday . . . or, well, I shan’t be seeing you but Suza—my housekeeper will show you the library and all will be in readiness. I shall pray for clear skies on your behalf.”

  “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 attache
d 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.