A Heart Revealed (26 page)

“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.”

“Oh?” Lady Fielding said, raising her eyebrows. Thomas was equally interested. The cottage had been owned by Lord Marchent for more than two decades. Who had lived there before his daughter?

“She was very much the same as this one, I believe. It was before Mr. Clawson and I came to North Riding, so I don’t know much myself. With Mrs. Chandler’s arrival we have heard talk, however.
That
woman was not a widow, however, but rather a spinster. Stayed in Step Cottage as Mrs. Chandler does, but was far more forceful regarding people leaving her be. Her servants avoided anyone in town and were not even allowed to go to church.”

“How long ago was this?” Lady Fielding asked.

“I believe the former occupant passed away about six years ago. There was a rather difficult year of influenza and she did not survive it. Her servants quit to London once she was buried. The house has been empty ever since.”

“Until Mrs. Chandler,” Lady Fielding said, a thoughtful smile on her face. “Curious. I wonder if the wife of a local baron might receive different reception if
she
called upon Mrs. Chandler. Perhaps her position would earn her an audience.”

Thomas looked out the window, irritated with himself for envying Lady Fielding’s courage to present herself. He did not think Miss Sterlington would receive her, however. Surely if she were to meet anyone, it would be Mr. and Mrs. Clawson. Yet she had lied to them as much as she’d lied to everyone else. She had worked hard to keep herself hidden.

“Perhaps,” Mrs. Clawson said reluctantly.

When the silence stretched on too long, Thomas glanced toward the women to find Mrs. Clawson looking at him, a smile on her face that seemed determined to change the topic of conversation. “Now, Mr. Richards, I have been meaning to ask you about the progress you have made toward the transfer of land you and Lord Fielding are orchestrating. I must say it has caused quite a stir for a man of your station to want to wear a working man’s coat.”

Chapter 30

Amber bent over the paper, her quill hovering over the page as she stared at the words she’d written so far: “Dear Mr. Richards.” She put the quill back in the stock and pushed away from the desk. Suzanne was in the kitchen, washing the dishes from breakfast when Amber entered.

“Should I be addressing the letter to Mr. Richards or Lady Fielding?” Amber asked Suzanne. “She was the highest-ranking member of the party who escorted you home.”

“But Mr. Richards was the one who offered the help and served as escort.” Suzanne smiled slightly though Amber had no idea why. This was important. She must do it properly.

Amber thought of something else. “The carriage belonged to
Lord
Fielding. Perhaps I should address the letter to him as he outranks everyone.”

Suzanne fixed her gaze on her mistress, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps you should stop trying to talk yourself out of writing a letter to Mr. Richards.”

“I only want to do it correctly,” Amber defended, but that was not entirely true. She was anxious about this letter—this reaching out. She was unsure if it was putting her situation at risk.

“Then perhaps you should write to all three of them. A letter to Lord and Lady Fielding for the carriage, and another one to Mr. Richards for orchestrating the travel.”

“Yes, that is an option.” But it still made her nervous. Even though he did not know it, she had spent far too much time thinking of Mr. Richards since his visit to the library a month ago. It was surely due to her removal from the society he represented, but the attention her mind gave to him was not helpful. She feared that writing to him would be some kind of . . . invitation. Openness. Interest. She could not risk any of those things.

“Write the letters, Amber,” Suzanne said. “You are making this far too important in your mind.”

Amber nodded, knowing Suzanne was right and that she ought to just get it over with. She returned to the desk in the library and took a breath. Writing two letters was a good idea, so she pushed aside the one already addressed to Mr. Richards and started a fresh one that, thankfully, was much easier to write. She thanked Lord and Lady Fielding for the generosity of the carriage and the chaperone, emphasizing that she was writing two days after Suzanne’s return and the storm
had
left the roads impassable. Had Suzanne not returned when she had, Amber would be alone still.

It wasn’t until after she had signed her name “Miss Amber Sterlington” that she remembered she was Mrs. Chandler now. Grunting with frustration, she balled up the letter and threw it in the fire, where it crackled before being swallowed up in flames. She wrote a second letter, as equally eloquent as the first but signed Mrs. Chandler.

While she waited for the ink to dry, she read the words over and worried they were
too
kind. It didn’t seem right to be
less
than kind, but it would not do to sound as though she would welcome a continued acquaintance. Goodness, what if Lady Fielding called at the cottage? Turning away someone of her station would be nothing short of an insult, but a visit would be impossible.

Amber groaned again and crumpled the letter, as she did with her third and fourth attempt until, finally, she felt she struck the right balance of gratitude and distance. Never mind that it was also the most pathetic letter she had ever dared write.

Dear Lord and Lady Fielding,

I am writing this letter to thank you for the use of your carriage and for Lady Fielding’s attendance in returning my housekeeper to me on January the sixth. I am quite dependent on her as I am disinclined for anyone’s society but hers and am glad to have had her delivered safely.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Chandler

She was still shaking her head when she sealed it, hating the coldness of her words but knowing no better course. Moments later she was staring at the letter to Mr. Richards again, no better prepared to write it now than she had been an hour ago. She didn’t want to be so cold and distant with him as he was the one who had come to Suzanne’s rescue. As he was of greater importance in her thoughts, she wanted greater honesty in her letter to him. Surely he would not call on her himself if her wording was
too
kind; single men did not make calls on crippled widows. With that in mind, she took a breath to calm her nerves, cocked her head, and simply said what she wanted him to know.

Dear Mr. Richards,

I cannot adequately thank you for the kindness you showed to both Mrs. Miller and myself on January sixth when you returned her to Step Cottage. As I write this letter, the roads are quite impassable, which means she would still be in Romanby if not for your generosity. It was surely a great sacrifice of your time and your household, and I want to be sure that you know what a blessing it was to me. Though I know few people in this area, you and your family seem to be the very best of them and I thank you again for your kindness and attention.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Chandler

How she wished she could put her own name on the letter and feel a sense of ownership for the words. It was not possible, however. She waited for the ink to dry before sealing it up and putting Mr. Richards’s name on the front. She stacked both letters on the edge of the desk where they would wait until Suzanne was next able to go to town.

She looked out the window in front of the desk and frowned. It was snowing again, and she wondered how long they could expect to be trapped here. They had enough necessities, but it was uncomfortable to know they were cut off from town completely. Even when the weather cleared, however, they were without Sally and the gig, which were being kept at Peakview Manor. She wondered if Mr. Richards would return the items himself. The idea made her smile.

She glanced once more at the letters on the desk and allowed herself the contentment at having written them. Thanking those who had returned Suzanne had been the right thing to do, and she felt as though she had lived up to her station in having done it.

The task complete, she returned to the kitchen where Suzanne was bent over a book. Amber paused in the doorway and smiled. She’d been helping Suzanne improve her reading on these cold winter nights and was glad to see she was taking the time to practice. She must have sensed Amber in the doorway since she looked up and then closed the book and pushed it away as though embarrassed to be found with it.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Amber said, crossing the room to take the stool on the other side of the table. “What are you reading?”

Suzanne turned the book over so Amber could see the title.

“
Romeo and Juliet
?” Amber’s knit cap moved up a bit instead of her eyebrows. “I would not have guessed you to be such a romantic.”

Suzanne shrugged. “When I looked over the bookshelves for something to practice my reading, it was the only title I recognized.”

Suzanne’s talk about Mr. Larsen, the blacksmith in town, had increased these last weeks, and Amber wondered if the choice of literature might have something to do with the attention the man seemed to be paying Suzanne.

“And do you like the story?” Amber asked.

Suzanne frowned. “I don’t know that I read well enough understand it. The Capulets and the Montagues dislike one another, but I don’t understand why.”

“That is part of the brilliance of the story,” Amber said, leaning forward and tapping the book. “Whatever it was that caused the discord was so long ago it has been forgotten. Their hatred has simply become a . . . tradition, I suppose. They hate each other simply because their families always have.”

“Seems a poor reason.”

“As prejudice usually is,” Amber said, thinking of how she had always looked down on people below her class simply because it was how she’d seen it done. Tradition. “How much have you read?”

“Not much at all,” Suzanne said, still frowning. “I have to read some portions three or four times to try to understand it.”

Amber nodded, she could understand that. She had done much the same thing when she’d first revisited some of the Bard’s works this winter. He wrote with such eloquence and power that without strict attention the details of the story could be lost. “Perhaps you could read it to me and together we can sort out the meaning; I’m sure I could benefit from such study.” Specifically she needed a distraction that would keep her from reading the letter she’d written to Mr. Richards over and over again. Why did the honest gratitude she’d shared on paper make her feel so vulnerable?

Chapter 31

It took another five days before the skies and the roads were clear enough for the gig and horse to be returned to Step Cottage. Thomas helped ready the heavy farm wagon that was to make the trip—the lighter carriages would have a harder time on the slick roads—but declined to go with the party of four groomsmen who facilitated the delivery.

He watched them leave the stables in a procession of wagon and gig and told himself he’d chosen correctly. Keeping distance between himself and Miss Sterlington was still his primary goal. As it was, these past five days had been filled to overflowing with thoughts of her, many of them confusing.

He had seen a change in her, or perhaps a different side of her, that night at Carlton House. Perhaps anyone—no matter how horrid—would have looked as vulnerable, so in need of protection in such a dreadful situation. He then added that sincerity of expression with the self-sufficiency of her present circumstance, her accommodations to him regarding the use of her library, and the genuine care her servant had for her. Mrs. Miller seemed to regard her mistress as a friend, a companion. Together, all these details were enough to build new theories that churned in Thomas’s head and chest.

He sought to occupy his thoughts elsewhere, but even digging postholes in the frozen ground and mucking out horse stalls, while ignoring the concerned looks of the staff, did not distract him completely. That morning, as preparations were made to return the horse and gig, he had almost convinced himself to attempt one more visit to see her. Yet in the end, he did not go. Instead, he busied himself in the stables until the most minor of tasks was accomplished and then he saddled Farthing for a very cold and uncomfortable ride in the opposite direction from Step Cottage. Perhaps the cold would numb his brain completely. Such a thing would be most welcome.

Thomas returned to the stables in time to see the wagon roll through the gates without the gig following behind, proof that the journey had been successful. He’d been longing for a hot cup of tea and a chance to thaw his frozen face and fingers in front of the fireplace but could not resist knowing what had happened at Step Cottage. He was waiting for the men in the stables when they entered.