A Heart Revealed Page 19

  Yorkshire had received only a few bouts of snow so far this winter, though temperatures had been as cold as ever. He feared this storm would make up for what had been spared thus far. With St. Nicholas past and a New Year just begun, perhaps it was only fair that they welcome the season with open arms. It would be good for the new trees he’d planted in the fall to have so much moisture seep deep into the soil.

  “Good day, Mr. Richards,” Mr. Larsen, the smithy, said from where he stood beside the forge. Using a large set of tongs, he pulled a pot from the flame and set it on his anvil, immediately working the side of it with a small hammer. “The harnesses are just there if you’d like to inspect them.” He nodded toward the workbench that ran the length of the north side of the shop. Though the shop had doors on every wall to accommodate ventilation, the temperature inside was quite comfortable.

  “I’ve no need to approve the quality, I’m sure.”

  Mr. Larsen finished his hammering and used the tongs to dip the pan into water that hissed and bubbled in reaction to the heated metal. Mr. Larsen left the pot in the bath and removed his heavy gloves in order to join Thomas at the workbench and review the details of the work he’d done. As expected, the work was sound enough that it was difficult to tell where the repairs had even been made. Thomas said as much, and Mr. Larsen thanked him for the compliment.

  As part of his attempts to keep his thoughts focused on purposeful tasks, Thomas had created a list of tasks that could be done during foul weather. One such task was to organize the tack shed and though the stable master did not appreciate Thomas’s supervision, he had relented when Thomas made it clear he had no other choice. Repairing all the broken bridles and harnesses was the first step. Then they would be hung by order of type and size along an interior wall of the stable which had been prepared with a series of hooks. It was not difficult, only time-consuming—which was exactly what Thomas wanted. His business complete, Thomas paid for the work before turning up the collar of his coat.

  “Take care on your return to the manor. Looks like a blustery storm, it does,” Mr. Larsen said, nodding to the weather to which Thomas was to return.

  Thomas thanked him and had turned back to the open doorway when a bundled figure hurried into the sanctuary of the shop, forcing him to step aside to avoid being knocked down.

  “Beg your pardon,” a woman’s voice said from beneath a heavy scarf wrapped around her head and neck. She didn’t await his reply but instead continued toward Mr. Larsen, who looked at the new arrival with greater interest than he’d looked upon Thomas. “Is my pot finished, Mr. Larsen?” the woman asked.

  “Just now, Mrs. Miller,” Mr. Larsen replied, waving toward the bath. “But you can’t expect to return home today. Not in a gig. Not alone.”

  “I’m afraid I must,” the woman said, her concern evident as she pulled the scarf from her face. “I can’t leave my mistress alone, not in weather like this. Mr. Clawson feels this storm will only get worse.”

  At the mention of her mistress, Thomas realized who the woman was and remembered her as he’d first met her, in the doorway of Step Cottage more than a month ago. A rush of heat and irritation moved through him, prickling his skin beneath the layers of clothing. Hearing any news related to Miss Sterlington would surely undo his determination to extract her from his thoughts. He told his feet to move, but they did not comply, and he remained where he was, listening to the conversation that did not include him.

  “I fear the vicar is right, Mrs. Miller,” Mr. Larsen said, stepping to the tub of water. He lifted out the cooled pot with his bare hands and shook the water from it. “You best return to the vicarage and wait it out.”

  Mrs. Miller began to wring her gloved hands and looked outside again, her face pinched with concern. She met Thomas’s eye, and he saw recognition on her part.

  “Mrs. Miller,” Thomas said, accepting his obligation to greet her. He had no desire to snub the woman; he simply knew he should be hurrying home. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, Mr. Richards,” Mrs. Miller said, nodding quickly then pausing and shaking her head. “I mean, no, but it is no concern of yours.” She looked past him to the falling snow, and her eyebrows pulled together once again before turning back to Mr. Larsen. “How long will this last, do you think? Could I expect to journey home tomorrow?”

  “I wouldn’t expect decent travel for a few days, Mrs. Miller,” Mr. Larsen said with regret. “Even if it stopped within the hour, your rig can’t make the trip in such mud as will be left behind from a squall like this. If there were more snow I would offer my sled, but it would take a week’s worth of heavy snow to accommodate that.”

  The blacksmith’s generous offer prompted Thomas to find a solution of his own, though even as he prepared it he wondered at his motivation. He had promised himself to keep a distance from that cottage and yet the words left his mouth without restraint. “My brother has a traveling coach and four that could make the trip if we left soon, Mrs. Miller,” Thomas said. “I could have it readied in an hour’s time if you are desperate to return today.”

  The woman turned eager eyes to Thomas, but then her glance slid to Mr. Larsen before turning to the ground. Thomas understood the response; she realized his offer was above that expected of her position. “I could not ask for such an accommodation, sir, though I appreciate your kindness. I shall confer with the vicar and see what solution he might propose.”

  Thomas smiled in an attempt to put her at ease. “If you truly appreciate my kindness, then allow me to help.” He turned to Mr. Larsen. “The pot is finished?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Larsen said, a pleased smile on his face.

  Thomas’s stomach, on the other hand, was sinking. What was he doing, going back to the cottage? How would he ever get past his obsession with Miss Sterlington if he did not keep himself out of her path? Doing the right thing bypassed his regrets, however. He could not not help a woman in need; he’d been raised to such things all of his life. He told himself he was doing it for Mrs. Miller, though. Not for Miss Sterlington.

  “Could you arrange to have Mrs. Miller delivered to the manor in one hour’s time? Perhaps the vicar could assist you.” He turned to the woman. “Your horse and gig can be cared for in our stables, and I shall have them returned to Step Cottage when the weather lifts.”

  Mrs. Miller blinked at him in surprise. “I should refuse your offer, sir, but I am most eager to return to my mistress as she has already been alone for two days’ time. I am most grateful for your generosity. Thank you.”

  Thomas inclined his head before meeting Mr. Larsen’s gaze. “See that Mrs. Miller gets to the manor, and I shall see that she gets home.”

  When Thomas explained the situation to Lord and Lady Fielding, Albert agreed to lend use of the coach and Diane offered to act as Mrs. Miller’s chaperone. Thomas accepted her offer with a reluctance he hoped she did not note. He had already come up with a list of questions he wanted to ask Mrs. Miller. But with Lady Fielding in attendance, he could not be so bold. Thomas couldn’t refuse his sister-in-law, however, and convinced himself it would be better if she came. It would ensure propriety and, he reminded himself, he didn’t want to know more about Miss Sterlington. Lady Fielding’s presence would secure his ignorance.

  Mrs. Clawson, the vicar’s wife, arrived with Mrs. Miller and intended to go with her, so it was a full carriage that made its way to Step Cottage, which was nearly four and a half miles from the manor. A very long and slow four miles.

  Diane and Mrs. Clawson enjoyed some light conversation in the carriage about the weather and the parish and the health of one another’s husbands and children. Mrs. Miller did not participate, she was a servant after all, and Thomas was content to stare at the words on the page of the book he’d brought with him—a book on architecture he hoped would help him with the design of the house he planned to begin this spring. He kept reading the same words over and over, however, unable to think of anything other than the fact that every tur
n of the wheel was taking him closer to the woman who haunted him.

  When they arrived at Step Cottage it was late afternoon, and Mrs. Miller promised them tea if they would wait in the carriage just a few minutes for her to ready the cottage. Her nervousness made far more sense to Thomas than she could ever have guessed, and his whole body was taut with expectation as he looked up the steps that led to her. Miss Sterlington did not know they were coming which meant he might be able to catch her unawares.

  “We do not need tea,” Mrs. Clawson said, a bit presumptuously, Thomas thought. “Please give your mistress our regards, however. The groom will help you with your supplies, and then we should return to town as quickly as possible while the roads are still passable.”

  “I shall assist with the supplies,” Thomas said quickly, finding a secondary reason to enter the cottage.

  Mrs. Miller had come to town to refresh the stores, and thus was returning with two crates of supplies as well as the pot Mr. Larsen had repaired. Thomas exited the carriage first and then assisted Mrs. Miller.

  As soon as both feet were on the ground, Mrs. Miller lifted her skirts and hurried up the snow-covered steps—not even giving instruction to the groom.

  The groom removed the supply crates from beneath the carriage far too slowly for Thomas’s mind, but as soon as Thomas had the first parcel in his arms, he took the steps as quickly as he dared. The front door had been left open in Mrs. Miller’s haste, and Thomas smiled to himself, feeling anticipation of coming face to face with Miss Sterlington. What would she do? Would she know him from exchanges in London?

  He ducked through the door in time to hear hurried footsteps moving on the stairs. Thomas looked up in time to catch a flash of blue skirt and snowy white petticoat as they disappeared around the corner.

  Chapter 29

  Thomas clenched his jaw in frustration at having missed his chance, but turned his attention to Mrs. Miller who approached from the kitchen, an anxious but relieved smile on her face.

  “Thank you so very much for your kind assistance,” she said before glancing up the stairwell. Seeing it empty seemed to bring her greater relief.

  “Of course,” Thomas said. Miss Sterlington had set quite a pace for her escape—and up the stairs, no less. Could she have moved so quickly if she were nearing the end of her confinement? He hated thinking in that direction but found some of the weight in his chest lifted by what seemed to be proof against the condition he feared. What other reason would she be confined to this cottage?

  “Would you mind bringing the supplies into the kitchen, please?” Mrs. Miller asked.

  Thomas nodded and followed the footman—who had just now caught up—into the small but warm cooking area. As he set down his crate of supplies, he tried to imagine Amber Sterlington in such a room. It was primitive and confined, nothing like the kitchens of the great homes she was accustomed to. Then he realized that the fire in the grate would have to have been maintained by Miss Sterlington herself, since her housekeeper had been in town these two days. He scanned the room with greater attention and saw a potato quartered on the counter. He noticed the scent of recent baking and was stunned by the realization that Miss Sterlington . . . cooked?

  “Are there any other servants here?” Thomas asked, turning quickly to Mrs. Miller. He felt sure she was the only help as he had not encountered any others on his previous visits, but it had become very important of a sudden that he know for sure.

  “Only me, sir, which is why it was so kind of you to deliver me home. I am indebted to you. As is my mistress. It is a fearful thing to be alone too long in weather like this.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said, nodding slowly while trying to puzzle through the situation. “Was . . . Mrs. Chandler well in your absence?”

  Mrs. Miller turned her eyes to the counter and the fire, just as Thomas had, and he knew she understood why he was asking. Mrs. Chandler had been rumored about town to be a widow of genteel birth, yet she had cared for herself in her servant’s absence. Mrs. Miller looked at the floor and seemed to be struggling with how to answer, which made Thomas feel badly for having put her in an awkward situation. He knew the true identity of her mistress; there was no reason to make the housekeeper uncomfortable.

  “I am glad to have been of assistance,” he said, saving the woman from a reply. “Is there anything else we can do before we return? Shall we fill your coal box from the shed?”

  Mrs. Miller busied herself with something at the counter and gave them a nervous smile. “You have done so very much already. I do have some oat biscuits you can take for your return trip. I know it is not equal to your efforts on our behalf, but I have no other way to express our thanks.”

  “We are glad to have been able to help,” Thomas said while ushering the groom outside to fill the coal bucket. The maid passed him a basket lined with linen, and he pulled back the cloth to verify that the biscuits were still warm—biscuits Miss Sterlington had baked herself. He replaced the linen covering with a degree of reverence. “Please thank your mistress for the refreshment.”

  She smiled, then turned to instruct the returning groom on where to put the coal. As she led them to the door, Thomas looked up the stairwell but could see no indication of Miss Sterlington. Yet he knew she was there. Standing just out of view, listening to them talk. Unwilling to thank him herself. He did not know how he knew it, but he did.

  When the door shut, Thomas felt sure Mrs. Miller was glad to have him gone.

  The groom began to move down the stairs, but Thomas stepped back to the door and listened to the sound of muffled voices and the creak of stairs as Miss Sterlington surely returned to the main level. He could not hear what was being said and closed his eyes against the desire to throw open the door and confront her. But to what end?

  Oh, the aggravation!

  He looked at the confused groom, shifting his weight on the porch, and then nodded him forward, reluctantly following the man away from the cottage.

  Once inside the carriage, the three occupants dismissed manners and ceremony in order to enjoy the biscuits. “If I’d known how long this journey would take, I’d have brought us a full picnic,” Lady Fielding said, eating her biscuit one pinch at a time. “Specifically a crock of milk to go with these cakes. They are good, if perhaps a bit dry.”

  Thomas did not find them dry. He found them delicious even as he told himself to dislike them on principle. “The mistress of the house baked them,” he said, causing both women to raise their eyebrows. He turned his gaze to Mrs. Clawson. “Have you met her?”

  “Mrs. Chandler?” Mrs. Clawson said as though Thomas could mean anyone else. “Not myself, no. A queer woman from what I’ve been able to gather, though I know very little.”

  “You surely know more than anyone else,” Lady Fielding said, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief and unknowingly saving Thomas from having to ask the question himself. “No one in town seems to know much about her. Thomas even came to search the library for a document, but Mrs. Chandler did not even make an introduction.”

  Mrs. Clawson smiled at him. “Yes, Mrs. Miller said you had come for the use of the library. I sense she’d hoped her mistress would have been more welcoming.”

  “She was quite welcoming,” Thomas said, rising to Miss Sterlington’s defense far easier than he would have liked. He thought back to that afternoon and wondered if the cake she’d served him could have been made by her own hands. The idea was exciting to him, yet the excitement annoyed him. “But, no, she stayed above stairs and did not introduce herself.” Well, on the stairs, actually, but he was not going to explain that part.

  “She has met with no one in town, not even her man of business,” Mrs. Clawson said as though trying to soothe his feelings. “And Mrs. Miller does not often talk of her. She is oddly protective of her mistress.”

  “She seemed quite eager to return despite Mrs. Chandler’s apparent self-sufficiency,” Lady Fielding said.

  “I’m sure you know that a bond oft
en develops between the staff and their betters. Mrs. Miller is rather fond of the widow, I think. Never disparaging or cross about her, which says a great deal about both of them.”

  “How odd that she would develop such a kindness in her staff, but be so inaccessible to the town, especially clergy,” Lady Fielding said, her eyes bright with the anticipation of gossip. Thomas clenched his jaw and wished again that his sister-in-law had not come.

  “I have the impression she had some great difficulty before coming here,” Mrs. Clawson continued. “Lost her husband, of course, and no family to speak of. I believe she is a cripple.”

  “She is not a cripple,” Thomas said quickly, thinking again of the footsteps he heard and the flash of skirt on the stairs. Only when he noticed both women looking at him did he realize he would need to explain, which he did.

  “Odd,” Mrs. Clawson said, her eyebrows knit together. “I feel certain Mrs. Miller said she had some trouble with her legs, but I suppose Mrs. Chandler has had to learn some measure of independence for Mrs. Miller to leave her for town.” She shrugged as though it was an inconsequential detail.

  “Perhaps her husband was a scoundrel and she has run from his reputation to live in peace,” Lady Fielding said, seeming to like the idea. “Or maybe she was a scoundrel and all the doors of her acquaintances were closed to her.” Thomas’s breath caught at the remarkably astute assessment and he tried to cover it with a cough. Fortunately, Lady Fielding kept her attention on Mrs. Clawson. “Did she not turn away you and the vicar not once but twice? Only someone out of favor with the church would do such a thing.”

  “Or perhaps she is simply an eccentric woman who prefers her own company. I’ve no reason to doubt that nor speculate on her situation if she is unwilling to share it.” Mrs. Clawson’s smile was befitting the wife of a clergyman, but her reprimand did not go unnoticed. “There was another woman who lived there years ago, you know. It seems that Mrs. Chandler has much in common with the former occupant.”