A Heart Revealed (32 page)

Eventually, Amber heard the turning of pages and suspected he was looking through the book he’d come to borrow. Then a rumbling sound came from the library. It took her a moment to realize it was his voice, quiet as though not wanting to be overheard. Amber held her breath to better hear what he was saying, then rose carefully and came down a few more steps until she could decipher his words. She realized quickly that he was not simply talking to himself, rather he was reading.

Before the discovery of the trunk contents had distracted her, she had finished the first act of
Richard II
and left the book out so as begin act two upon her return to the material. It seemed he was reading where she had left off. He had beautiful oration, and his words left her feeling both chilled and warmed in the same moment. She leaned her head against the wall that separated them and closed her eyes, allowing his voice to move through her.

“With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder:

Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,

Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

This royal throne of kings, this scepter’d isle,

This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,

This other Eden, demi-paradise,

This fortress built by Nature for herself

Against infection and the hand of war,

This happy breed of men, this little world . . .”

Amber wished she had left out something other than one of Shakespeare’s histories, and yet it seemed beautiful in his low-toned timbre. She felt sure he would stop when he reached the end of Gaunt’s monologue, but he did not. Instead, his voice changed in intonation enough to define a new voice—Edmund, she thought—and he continued with an impassioned speech. Amber soon found herself lost in the patterns and lyrics of his voice as the story of Richard II came to life within the cottage.

When he stopped reading some time later, she blinked her eyes open and straightened on the step. How long had she listened to him? And only two steps from the main floor! She heard the cover of the book close softly and came to her feet. He stood as well but then seemed to cross the room away from her direction, toward the window and the desk.

She should run up the stairs and secure her hiding place before he found her, and yet instead she tiptoed down the two remaining steps and peered around the stairwell, allowing herself only a few moments to take in the back of his charcoal coat pulled tight across broad shoulders. Her heart rate increased as she took note of the way his coat tapered at the waist and the dark brown sheen of his hair. In the candlelight from the mantel, it looked like chocolate not yet set.

She both saw and heard him open the desk drawer and remove a piece of parchment. He pulled back his coat and sat in the wooden chair before the desk—the very same position she would take when writing a letter. He reached for the quill from the stock, and she became fairly giddy with expectation of what he might be writing.

She realized, suddenly, that a quick look over his shoulder would reveal her. She picked up her skirts and made her way as quietly as possible to the second floor. Certainly he wouldn’t hear the creaking steps, would he? She remained out of sight at the top of the stairs and therefore heard him stride from the room.

“Mrs. Miller?” he called.

Suzanne hurried to meet him in the foyer as he retrieved his outer coat, hat, and scarf.

“Did you find the book you wished to borrow, Mr. Richards?” Suzanne asked him.

How Amber wished she could watch him again without being seen. She wanted to memorize the shape of the mouth that had read so beautifully and see into the eyes that must reflect great feeling. She knew the basics of his carriage now and sensed his manner to be gentle. She ached to know more of him, ached to speak with him, and learn of him. Such foolish longings were ridiculous, of course. The fact remained that she could not gain closeness without him being equally close to her and that was not a possibility.

“I did and would like you to extend my thanks to your mistress for allowing me to borrow it.”

“She would extend her welcome to you, of course,” Suzanne said.

Amber heard the creak of the door open and footsteps as Mr. Richards took his leave. She moved toward her bedchamber so as to watch him ride away but then remembered the letter he had written and changed her direction.

As soon as the front door closed behind him, she ran down the stairs and fairly flew into the library. Her eyes located the cream paper on the desk without her feet ever having to stop. With the paper in her hands, she sat down on the chair still warm from his occupancy and unfolded the letter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Suzanne come to stand in the doorway.

Mrs. Chandler,

I express my most sincere thanks for the loan of your book and would very much like to repay your kindness by inviting you to tea this coming Friday. I know you do not care to venture out, and I would therefore bring all the requirements if your housekeeper could but have hot water available. I can promise absolute discretion in regards to our appointment. Such a visit would also allow me to return the book I have borrowed.

It is my greatest wish that you will allow me this opportunity, and unless I am informed otherwise, I shall believe my invitation is as agreeable to you as it is to myself. I shall plan to arrive at one o’clock.

Most kindly yours,

Thomas Richards

Amber lowered the letter and the shock she felt must have shown on her expression.

“Amber?” Suzanne asked, coming into the room. “What is it?”

Amber blinked. “He wants to return and bring tea on Friday.”

Suzanne pulled her eyebrows together. “
Bring
tea?”

Amber looked back at the letter. “He says that due to my not wanting to venture out, he would bring tea here for both of us to enjoy at the cottage. All he needs from us is hot water, which is reasonable. I suppose it would be impossible to transport hot water such a distance.”

“Oh,” Suzanne said, her eyebrows rising this time as a smile played across her lips. “He is to
call
on you.”

Amber leaned back in the chair and lowered the letter to her lap as reality descended like a stone. “He cannot
call
on me,” she said, turning to look toward the copy of
Richard II
now returned to the end table where she had left it, the scrap of fabric she had used as a bookmark draped from the new place within its pages. Her spirits, so lifted a moment ago, sank into the too familiar state of regret. “I shall have to send you with word that I am unable to accommodate his request.”

Suzanne crossed the room and sat on the settee. “Would you read the letter for me?”

Amber read the letter aloud, then looked to Suzanne, whose expression was far too pleased. “He is most sincere in his attentions and seems mindful of your desire for privacy,” Suzanne said.

“He cannot call,” Amber said again, hating the truth but unable to ignore it. She had been too welcoming from the start and given rise to his curiosity. To welcome him to the library but not meet him in person, to have been presented to the town as reclusive and yet attentive to his every comfort during his visits—it was no wonder he was interested in better understanding her person. What a fool she was to have let this go so far. “I cannot receive him.”

“Are you most certain of that?” Suzanne asked, reminding Amber of the discussion they had had on this very topic just last night.

“I am repulsive, Suzanne,” she said, quietly and filled with regret. “I cannot hide it from him, and I cannot bear his reaction. I know it is hard for you to understand, but my society is not like yours. He
would
reject me. I know it.”

“You are not repulsive,” Suzanne said. “And you found that paint in those trunks belonging to Constance Sterlington, did you not?”

“I have already told you my feelings about using face paints.”

Suzanne crossed to the candelabra near the fireplace. She blew out the flames, taking the room into shadowy darkness thanks to the skies dulled with gray clouds. She crossed to the other candleholder near the door and blew out that flame as well, inviting even more darkness.

“He thinks you an eccentric widow. Let him come and enjoy tea in a darkened room. We could tell him that the light is painful to your eyes or some such thing. With the shadow and some carefully painted brows in place of your own, you shall appear unobjectionable and his curiosity will be appeased, as will yours.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Amber said, breathless at the very idea. Yet it was the true reason for her breathlessness that concerned her more than the suggestion. As Suzanne laid out the potential plan, Amber felt such a stir of excitement and possibility that she could not deny her desire to do exactly what Suzanne suggested. To sit across from him and sip tea and eat biscuits as she once had done with any number of gentlemen? To see those eyes and hear that voice directed toward her?

“What would we talk about?” Amber said, realizing as she did so that she was agreeing to Suzanne’s plan. Why was she even considering such a thing?

Suzanne moved to the table beside the chair and picked up the leather bound volume of
Richard II
. “You shall talk of literature, of course. And perhaps, if we are lucky, he shall read aloud to you again. He has quite a fine voice, do you not agree?”

Amber looked at the book and remembered the effect his words had had on her. She thought back to Suzanne’s assurance that the world was not made up only of people who would reject her, that there would be those—even amid her own society—who could see beyond her appearance. Maybe even Mr. Richards. The idea had seemed impossible last night, painful and frightening. And yet she felt a smile pull at her lips now. He would not be seeing the whole of her, and certainly this would be his final visit to the cottage once he had met her and returned the book. Could she not take this smallest risk, if only to appease her own curiosity regarding the man?

She could not give him the chance to reject or accept her; it was still far too much of a risk. But if she were to live an isolated life, bound by her illness to spinsterhood and loneliness, could she not take some joyful memories with her? Would not tea with Mr. Richards—perhaps the last gentleman she would ever entertain—be a delightful memory to have? As soon as she thought of it, she wanted it so very much that she felt a physical ache. With her future so uncertain and so heavy upon her shoulders, could she not make the choice to enjoy one afternoon in a gentleman’s company?

“Perhaps he
will
read again,” Amber said softly as her heart fluttered in anticipation. “Perhaps so.”

Chapter 40

Thomas came in through the back door of Peakview Manor Friday afternoon and removed his coat and boots. It had rained most of the night, leaving the grounds choked in mud that clung to his boots. Out of habit he turned his polished top boots upside down before attempting to put them on; no patent leather shoes fell onto the stone floor, however, and while he would miss playing a game with his niece, he was running later than he would have liked.

He proceeded to his rooms where he dressed himself presentably for the cottage. He had never been a man of fashion but quite liked the pieces of clothing he’d purchased on Fenton’s recommendation in London. The tailoring was superior to anything he’d had before, and since his return, he’d used them as a guide for his tailor. Now all of his coats fit so perfectly they seemed to snap into place like a peg in a hole. He knew he cut a better figure, though such things had never concerned him much in the past. Today, however, he was going to meet Amber Sterlington and he wanted to look his very best. He wondered if she would recognize him and how he might react if she did. For good measure he added some of the spiced cologne he wore for society events; he had been in the fields most of the day, after all.

“Good day, Mrs. Berdsten,” he called loudly to the cook after he entered the kitchen, causing her to startle from where she stood at the stove. She turned and gave him a narrow look.

“You ought not to be sneaking up on me like that, Mr. Tom. It’s time you grew out of such childishness.”

Thomas smiled and continued toward the woman who had served his family all of his life. He still felt as welcome in her kitchen as he did in his mother’s parlor. “I shall never grow out of such things,” he said as he looked around the kitchen. His eyes fell upon a basket covered in a yellow cloth, and he looked from it to the merry eyes of Mrs. Berdsten. “Is that my request?”

“There is no one else who asked me to organize tarts, crumpets, and jam for a mysterious visit. I included some chicken sandwiches in order for you to have a proper picnic.”

“’Tis not a picnic I’m of a mind to produce, but I thank you for the consideration. Now, all I am needing is a tea service.” He worried that perhaps Miss Sterlington only had the one serviceable cup he’d been served with each time he’d visited.

Mrs. Berdsten pulled her heavy brows together and shook her head, covered in a cap that did not hide her steely curls. “I would caution you against making a visit to a woman who’s not got a tea service of her own.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows, only half in jest. “Who’s to say I’m visiting a woman?”

Mrs. Berdsten let out a hearty laugh and turned back to the pot she was stirring on the stove. “Who’s to say,” she muttered. “As if anything else would draw such attentions.”

Thomas could only hope the cook would not be too vocal in her suspicions as he moved further into the kitchen quarters in pursuit of the dish room he had only ever visited once or twice before. By law everything in the house belonged to Albert, but if Thomas were to divulge the motivation behind his actions, he felt sure Albert would allow him use of a tea service currently set in storage. However, he would prefer not to divulge anything until he better knew his own mind.