Inwardly frowning even more, she left the luncheon table. Feeling somewhat deflated, she retreated to her sitting room and spent the afternoon making a start on the long list of thank-you notes it fell to her to pen.
Charlie apparently made a habit of going riding around the estate immediately after breakfast. As he was also developing a habit of leaving her slumped, deliciously exhausted, in their bed in the morning, by the time she stirred and emerged for the day, he’d already broken his fast and was gone.
The next day she possessed her soul in patience, and was rewarded when, returning from his ride, he joined her at the luncheon table. He was happy to volunteer where he’d been, what he’d seen, to discuss the estate matters he’d been dealing with.
All well and good, as it should be.
She listened, learned, and responded encouragingly.
The previous evening, their first alone, had been spent companionably over the dinner table, with a short stint in the drawing room afterward. The night that had followed, once they were alone together in their bedchamber, had only confirmed, yet again, that there was patently, demonstrably, nothing what ever amiss between him and her. That he and she were as one in what they felt for each other.
Reassured, she waited until they’d risen from the luncheon table and were strolling into the corridor to suggest, “Perhaps this afternoon we could go for a drive?” It was Saturday; surely he could spare a few hours away from his investments.
Halting, she swung to face him, letting eagerness light her eyes.
His impassive mask was back in place. He met her eyes for the briefest of moments before, looking ahead, he shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. There are some matters I must attend to.” He hesitated for a second, then inclined his head. “If you’ll excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for any acknowledgment but strode away—heading for the library.
She stood and watched him go, eyes narrowing on his back, her lips slowly firming into a thin line.
She was starting to resent the very existence of his library.
By late afternoon her spurt of unaccustomed temper had cooled. A few rational hours spent in the calming ambiance of her new sitting room had suggested that perhaps this awkward attitudinal difficulty that seemed to exist between them during daylight hours was simply the outcome of his having different expectations—conventional expectations—over how they would spend their days.
Although she might wish it otherwise, in that light his behavior was understandable. If she wanted something different, then it was up to her to reshape his ideas.
Knowing his temperament, and his temper, she didn’t expect that to be easy, but, given their continued closeness in the nights—she could almost see him relax, see the aloof barrier he held between them through the day fall away when he joined her in their bedchamber—she wasn’t about to retreat from the task.
The following day was Sunday, which meant they went to church. It was odd to sit in the pew to the left of the aisle, rather than the one on the right, from which her mother, father, and Clary and Gloria smiled brightly at her.
Clary and Gloria especially; she hadn’t seen them since the wedding and had little doubt of the thoughts humming in their minds as they pretended to listen to Mr. Duncliffe’s sermon.
At the end of the ser vice, Charlie took her hand and drew her to her feet; he ushered her up the aisle in the wake of Mr. Duncliffe, ahead of all the others in the church. It was now her place to be the first to take Mr. Duncliffe’s hand.
He beamed at her. “My dear countess!” He squeezed her hand between both of his, then glanced at Charlie, by her shoulder. “What a glad day, my lord, that sees you here with your new bride.”
“Indeed.” Charlie offered his hand, rescuing her from Mr. Duncliffe’s warm clasp.
“Your mother and sister?” Mr. Duncliffe inquired.
“They’ve gone to spend some time with Lady Mary in Lincoln.”
“Excellent! Excellent!”
Before Mr. Duncliffe could embark on further queries, Charlie took Sarah’s elbow, smiled, nodded, and guided her on.
She stifled a giggle as they walked slowly down the path. “He was so pleased to have married us, he would have kept us on the step for as long as he could just to enjoy the memory.”
“Probably.”
They paused on the lawn a little way on to allow her family to catch up with them. The next few minutes passed with Charlie and her father engrossed in county matters, while she satisfied her mother’s maternal curiosity over how she was faring. The rest of the congregation streamed past, heads nodding, hats raised, smiles shy. She and her mother smiled in acknowledgment without breaking the stride of their conversation. Her older sisters, Maria and Angela, and their husbands had come only for the wedding and departed the next day, so there was news to be heard from that quarter, and she passed on good wishes from Mary and Alice, and a reminder from Serena that she would meet them all in London in a few weeks.
She did nothing to assuage Clary’s and Gloria’s curiosity, however, no matter that it glowed in their eyes.
Seeing it, too, her mother bent a stern look on them, then gathered her spouse and departed.
Clary hung back, her eyes on their mother’s back. “Can we come and visit?”
Sarah fought not to grin. “Mama will bring you when it’s appropriate.” Which wouldn’t be for at least a week or more. “After that, you can visit whenever you like.”
Clary’s lips formed an O, then she nodded and hurried to fall in behind their mother.
Charlie turned to her, brows arching.
Smiling, she slipped her hand into his arm; telling him the reason behind Clary’s and Gloria’s wish to visit her would serve no good purpose. “Perhaps,” she said as they turned toward the lych-gate beyond which their carriage waited, “we could go for a walk when we get back? I haven’t been over the gardens at the Park, not for years, and you know them better than anyone.”
She turned to look up at him—and could almost sense the wall of his aloofness growing and thickening.
His face gave nothing away. They reached the gate; he held it open for her. “It would probably be better if you asked the head gardener to show you around.”
Better for whom? Passing through the gate, she turned to stare at him.
Following her through, he didn’t meet her eyes. “I know Harris is eager to conduct you over his domain and discuss beds and bulbs and such. You’ll do better without me.”
That might be true; the gardens were ultimately her domain, her responsibility, and Harris might well feel confused by his master’s presence, yet…
“Meredith—glad I caught you.”
Sarah turned as Malcolm Sinclair opened the gate and joined them.
He smiled and bowed over her hand, greeting her elegantly and deferentially, then he turned to Charlie. They shook hands, and Sinclair said, “I’ve had some news from London. Drop by sometime and I’ll tell you about it.”
Sarah would have sworn the man intended to doff his hat and move on, but Charlie was slow to release his hand. His gaze, she noted, had sharpened on Sinclair’s face, then he glanced briefly at her, his expression as ever unreadable.
Then he looked again at Sinclair, his easy smile dawning. “Why not come to lunch? You can tell me then. I’d like to have the opportunity to sound you out about some ideas I’ve had about the prospective Bristol-Taunton connection.”
“Well…” Sinclair glanced at Sarah.
Charlie looked at her, too, and there was something in his eyes that made her feel this was some test. Summoning her own version of his easy—meaningless—smile, she turned it on Sinclair. “Indeed, Mr. Sinclair, do come. Your presence will enliven the occasion.” She returned her gaze to Charlie’s face. “We’re rather quiet at present.”
Sinclair glanced between them, but when Charlie raised an expectant brow at him, he accepted the invitation. Sarah couldn’t fault Sinclair’s manners.
He
r husband’s manners were another matter entirely.
She was not pleased, but an afternoon exploring the extensive gardens with Harris, listening to him expound on the intricacies of shrubberies and arbors, trading views on the colors most appropriate for the flower beds edging the lawns, then enlisting his aid in finding a suitable location for Mr. Quilley, the gnome, had a calming effect. She regained her customary equilibrium, enough for her thoughts to fire her determination rather than her temper.
Charlie was being difficult, but she knew what she knew, knew what she wanted, and was resolved to get it—to secure love as the daily as well as nightly basis of their marriage—for both their sakes.
Over a quiet dinner and the hour they spent in the drawing room afterward, he reading a novel while she embroidered—the very picture of matrimonial domesticity—she covertly watched him, but could find no clue to his strange attitude in his perennially inscrutable face.
She had no idea why he was being difficult, why he shied so completely from letting any hint of his true regard for her show outside their bedchamber, but wisdom suggested that with simple perseverance he would eventually come around.
Consequently, after another sultry winter’s night in their chamber during which she found not one thing in his attitude with which to cavil, she forced herself out of bed at a decent hour, hurried herself through washing and donning her riding habit, then rushed downstairs—just in time to run into him, literally, as he left the breakfast parlor.
“Oh!” She bounced back.
He caught her elbows, steadied her, then released her.
She smiled up at him. “I caught you. I wanted to ask if you would ride to the orphanage with me today. Some of the boys have been asking—”
“I’m sorry.” He stepped back, his face turning to stone. “I…made plans to ride to Sinclair’s. He has some papers I need to see.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t keep her face from falling, could literally feel her happiness draining from her, along with her smile. But she quickly drew breath, tamped down her rising temper, and reminded herself: Persevere. “Well”—she forced herself to brighten—“as Mr. Sinclair’s house is just beyond Crowcombe—Finley House, didn’t he say?—then at least we can ride that far together.”
His gaze briefly touched hers, then shifted away. “I have to deal with some letters first. I can’t say how long it’ll be before I’m ready to set out. Your meeting’s at ten, isn’t it?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the clock on the parlor mantel; she followed his gaze—it was nearly nine o’clock.
“You’ll have to hurry as it is.” His voice was devoid of any real emotion. She felt his gaze touch her face, then he stepped away and half bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your breakfast.”
She remained standing in the doorway staring at the clock as his footsteps faded down the long corridor.
Charlie hadn’t made any arrangements to visit Malcolm Sinclair, but it was easy enough to manufacture an excuse to go calling. Indeed, given that he was steadily steering their discussions ever deeper into the subject of railway companies and their financing, any excuse for another meeting was welcome; he could push such a discussion only so far at one sitting.
He rode into Crowcombe at eleven o’clock, an acceptable time for one gentleman to call on another. Finley House, a classical Georgian gentleman’s house, was set a few paces back from the Watchet road just past Crowcombe.
Dismounting before the gate, he walked Storm, reasonably docile after the ride, through and across the narrow stretch of grass separating the house from the wall bordering the road. A tree with solid low-hanging branches provided a useful place to tie the gelding securely, then Charlie paced up the flagstone path to the front steps.
The front door and hall were flanked by two good-sized rooms. Charlie listened, wondering if Sinclair had seen him arrive. Hearing no sound in the hallway, he raised his hand and knocked. And waited.
He’d considered telling Sinclair of their quest; the man was, after all, a renowned investor in railways, one of those senior investors who, even if he hadn’t been one of those who’d approached the authorities, had been financially harmed by the extortioner. Yet while he didn’t imagine Sinclair had any involvement with the villain, he knew only too well how investing “information” got around. If he told Sinclair, even if he swore him to secrecy, Sinclair would feel perfectly justified in telling someone he trusted, who would then tell someone he trusted, and so on, until the secret information was common knowledge and someone had whispered it to their villain.
So he quashed any moral niggles over picking Sinclair’s brains while concealing his true purpose.
Footsteps approached, coming from the rear of the house. The door opened and Malcolm Sinclair looked out.
He smiled. “Charlie.”
Charlie returned the smile. “Malcolm.” They shook hands and Sinclair waved him in.
He led him to a library-cum-study at the rear corner of the house. “My sanctum, such as it is.”
Charlie entered, glancing at the bookcases lining the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes that hadn’t been disturbed in years, the neat order of desk and chairs, an armchair and side table before the fireplace, French doors looking out to a small paved courtyard at the rear. Malcolm gestured; Charlie sat in the chair before the desk as his host resumed the admiral’s chair behind it.
“Now.” Malcolm caught his eye. “To what do I owe this plea sure?”
Charlie smiled and trotted out his perfectly genuine query. Sinclair thought, then replied; they were soon involved in a detailed assessment of the way the original Stockton-Darlington project had been funded and, in Sinclair’s opinion, how such funding arrangements could be improved, both from the point of view of the investors, and also the project itself.
It took very little prodding, subtle or otherwise, to get Malcolm talking on that subject. After they’d been conversing for some time, Charlie glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, and was shocked to discover more than an hour had passed.
He blinked, and straightened. “I must go—I had no idea I’d taken so much of your time.”
Malcolm followed his gaze to the clock; his brows rose in patent surprise. Then he smiled, a gesture Charlie instinctively recognized as more sincere than the one he deployed socially; this smile seemed a trifle rusty around the edges. “That just goes to show. I had no idea, either, but I’ve rarely…” Malcolm paused, then met Charlie’s eyes. “Met someone else with such similar interests, and”—his lips quirked—“such a similar facility for understanding finance and all its ramifications as I.”
His smile deepened as Charlie got to his feet. “I thoroughly enjoy our talks—please do call whenever you wish.”
Charlie prowled to the French windows and stood looking out. He knew just what Malcolm meant. In the last hour they’d jettisoned a great deal of the customary reserve men such as they maintained when discussing any subject involving money. He wouldn’t have done that, and nor would Malcolm, unless…it wasn’t so much a matter of trust as that they recognized in each other a very similar man. A degree of similarity greater than the norm.
Charlie couldn’t pretend the unexpected association wasn’t welcome. He glanced briefly at Malcolm, who was still seated behind the desk, watching him, then turned back to the window. “I’ll take you up on that.”
The moment stretched, then Malcolm asked, “How are you and your new countess getting on?”
Charlie inwardly stiffened, but remained outwardly relaxed, his hands in his pockets as he stared out at the straggly garden beyond the courtyard. The query had been couched entirely diffidently; he could acceptably turn it aside with some clichéd phrase and leave it at that.
Instead…“Women…ladies, often have ideas about married life that are somewhat different to those we gentlemen are prepared to countenance.”
“Ah.” Malcolm said no more, but sympathy, empathy, and understanding rang in the single sy
llable.
Charlie shifted, his gaze still locked on the bushes outside. “All I can do is hold firm—she’ll accept and come around in the end.”
Or so he prayed.
After a moment, Malcolm said, again in that diffident, incurious tone, “She seems a sensible lady. Mrs. Duncliffe mentioned she—Sarah—has lived all her life in this area and has various…interests.”
Charlie’s expression turned grim. “The orphanage.” He tipped his head toward the front of the house, in the direction in which the orphanage lay. And felt his stomach contract.
That morning…his instinctive reaction to her bright, bubbling invitation to join her had nearly had him accepting with a smile. He’d caught himself just in time; her mention of the boys had jerked him to attention. He liked children, of almost any age; he always had. He responded to them and they to him. But children always, always knew when one was being false; if he was surrounded by them and she was there, he’d never be able to hide what he felt for her.
And just the thought of seeing her surrounded by them, with the little ones hanging on her skirts, her madonna’s face alight as she reassured them…
No. He couldn’t ever go with her to the orphanage again.
“Still,” Malcolm murmured, “I imagine once you and she set up your own nursery, her interest in the orphanage will wane.”
Charlie thought of Sarah with his son—or daughter—in her arms, and felt his knees weaken, felt his resolution simply dissolve. Dear God! How would he cope with that?
He drew in a deep breath, and stiffened his spine; he had a year, at least nine months, in which to figure out how to deal with that eventuality. How to deal with his wife while keeping his love for her locked safely away.
“I’d better be getting back.” He turned, met Malcolm’s faintly concerned gaze, and smiled. Returning to the desk, he held out his hand. “It’s purely newly married jitters. I’m sure they’ll pass with time.”
His words, his smile, were a great deal more confident than he felt, but they served to put Malcolm at ease. He rose and clasped Charlie’s hand; together they walked back through the house.