Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

F allkirk's Farm lay just outside of the small village of Bidbury, at the edge of a beautiful green valley. A sign at the entrance to the drive proclaimed its name.

Hannah twisted in her seat in the curricle, glancing back at the donkey to see if he recognized his home. There appeared to be no change in the little creature's mood. He bore the same expression of alertness he'd worn when they had departed Camden Place.

"I thought he would be overjoyed," she said.

"It's been six months," James replied. "Perhaps he's forgotten?"

Hannah was skeptical. In her experience, animals didn't forget the homes they'd had or the treatment they'd received there, neither the good, nor the bad. She settled back in her seat as the curricle continued toward the farmhouse, rolling steadily over the hardpacked earth.

James was indeed an excellent driver, just as she had assured her mother. Hannah had experienced little discomfort during their journey.

Not of the physical kind, anyway.

Good gracious, what had she been thinking to confide so much in him about her parents' history?

But she knew what she'd been thinking. She'd been attempting to reassure him about his own family's scandals. To show him that he wasn't alone.

And not only that.

She supposed she'd been not-so-subtly attempting to warn him. He already found so much objectionable in her person—her shyness, her seeming lack of confidence, her unwillingness to enter London society. But there were other obstacles too. Greater obstacles. Far better he should learn about them now.

If any of it had changed James's mind about pursuing her, Hannah couldn't tell. He was as civil to her as he'd been when they had set out. It was only when he looked at her that she could sense his conflict. He did indeed appear as though he was trying to solve a puzzle, just as Charles had said.

Unhappy thought.

She stared out at the lush fields of the farm, refocusing her attention on the task at hand. "It seems a pleasant place," she said. "Sweet William must have been quite content here before he was stolen away. I pray he will be so again."

"It will certainly be an improvement over pulling a cart," James replied.

"Indeed. I suspect the costermonger was unduly harsh with him. The way the poor creature cringed. It seems that…" She trailed off, her attention arrested by a startling sight in one of the paddocks that lined the long drive. It was an undersized donkey, serenely grazing on the grass. The little beast had one white ear.

Spying the distinctive feature, Hannah sat bolt upright in her seat. She stared at the donkey in alarm. "Oh no," she breathed. "Look, James."

James followed her gaze. His brows shot up. "Is that Sweet William?"

"I fear it is."

"Then the donkey we've brought back?—"

"Is not," she said hollowly. "He must be a lookalike."

Up ahead, a portly man in a tweed cap stood at the gate of the cow pasture talking to two humbly dressed fellows. The farmer himself, Hannah presumed. He had a look of authority about him.

James pulled the curricle alongside him. "Do I have the privilege of addressing Mr. Fallkirk?"

"I'm Fallkirk," the farmer replied, coming over to meet them. "And who might you be, sir?"

"James Beresford, Viscount St. Clare," James said. "And this is Miss Heywood."

Hannah inclined her head to the man. She didn't speak. She was too embarrassed to do so. The donkey they'd brought with them was obviously not Sweet William. Not unless Sweet William had a near and identical relation.

Mr. Fallkirk bobbed his head at them both in greeting. Unlike the costermonger, he didn't appear unduly impressed by James's title. "How can I be of service yer lordship?"

"Miss Heywood and I had thought to return your missing donkey," James said.

Mr. Fallkirk exchanged a surprised look with his farmhands. Together, they walked behind the curricle to view the donkey in question. They returned almost immediately, a look of collective consternation on their faces.

"He do resemble m' daughter's donkey, I grant you," Mr. Fallkirk said. "But he's a mite too big. Sweet William is far smaller, as you see. He was returned to us a week ago. T'weren't stolen at all, as it transpired. He'd wandered off into the hills. One of my tenants found him and brought him back. M'daughter was delighted."

Hannah at last found her voice. "I'm very glad to hear it," she said. "Er, I don't suppose Miss Fallkirk would be interested in a second donkey?"

"Don't suppose she would, miss," Mr. Fallkirk said. "Sweet William is a territorial little rascal, prone to chasing off any other creature that invades his paddock. M' daughter spoiled him, that's the trouble. Thinks he's a dog not a farm animal."

"Yes, I see," Hannah said.

"You might offer this donkey at the sales this summer," Mr. Fallkirk suggested. "He's a good size for pulling one o' them fruit carts you see about town."

She winced.

"We shall consider it," James said. With that, he took his leave of the farmer, and turning the horses, exited the drive. He didn't say anything for a long while. Indeed, his countenance was uncommonly rigid.

Hannah steadfastly avoided his gaze. Good lord. What must he be thinking of her? Doubtless he was irritated or possibly even angry. She privately wondered if she owed him an apology for putting him to so much trouble.

But really, how was she to know it wasn't the right donkey?

"I am mortified," she declared at last. "Not only have I inconvenienced you, but to think, I accused that innocent costermonger of theft on a public street! I must find him and make my apologies."

"You don't owe him an apology."

"Indeed, I do."

"You didn't accuse him of theft outright, did you?"

"No, but I did greatly annoy him."

"For which he was handsomely compensated."

"Yes, he was, but?—"

"Unless you mean to restore the donkey to him?"

"I most certainly don't," she said, appalled at the suggestion. "This donkey can't go back to a life of service. Not now he knows what a warm mash is and not after he's experienced a night in a comfortable stable. He deserves to be someone's pet, just like Sweet William is."

" Your pet?" James asked.

Hannah frowned. "As to that…I shall have to ask my parents." She considered the various complications. "Even if they said I could have him, the fact remains that we shall be in Bath for some time. It isn't a city well-disposed for keeping horses or donkeys. I should think it far better if he could return to the country with someone. Or perhaps be sent back with someone's groom who would look after him in the manner to which he's become accustomed."

"Someone," he repeated. "Anyone in particular?"

She gave him a hopeful look. "You wouldn't have need of a donkey, would you?"

James burst out laughing.

Hannah started. She'd never seen him laugh before. The action wrought a dramatic change in his countenance. The hard lines of his face softened, the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he smiled—such a smile! It was dazzling and warm, making him at once more handsome and more human.

Her own mouth quivered in reflexive response. Soon, she was laughing too. "Oh, what a muddle. But you must own I haven't been completely out of order. This donkey does bear a remarkable resemblance to Sweet William."

"Quite remarkable. He will make someone a handsome pet, I'm sure." James paused, adding wryly, "That someone being me."

Hannah's bosom swelled with gratitude. She beamed up at him. "Oh, thank you, James! You won't be sorry, I promise you."

He held her gaze for a moment. "How can I be sorry when I've made you smile?"

"I often do smile."

"Not like that," he said. "Not at me."

Her expression was dimmed by a trace of self-consciousness. "Haven't I?"

"Never." He turned the horses back onto the Bath Road. "When you came to stay at Beasley Park, I often saw you laughing and smiling with my brothers. I confess, I was envious of them."

Hannah was certain he was being gallant. Her heart nevertheless skipped a beat.

To think that he'd been observing her even then! That he'd coveted her smiles! It was excessively romantic.

"Yes," she said, "but Ivo and Jack laughed and smiled too. You never did. Indeed, I'd never heard you laugh at all until five minutes ago."

This seemed to surprise him. "What? Never?"

She shook her head.

"I'm not incapable of it," he said.

"Only very rarely amused?"

A frown clouded his brow. "I suppose, when one is the heir, one learns to maintain a certain dignity."

"Laughter is undignified?"

"Not laughter. A lack of control."

It was very much as Hannah had suspected. "Have you always been so adept at keeping your countenance?" she asked. "Were you never…"

"What?"

"Less strategic?"

His eyes found hers as he drove. "It's difficult to dispense with strategy when I want something as much as I want you."

Hannah's heart performed another disconcerting somersault. She was keenly conscious of the scorching heat rising in her cheeks, but this time she didn't shyly lower her eyes. She returned his gaze steadily. "You don't need to be strategic with me," she said. "I only ask that you be yourself."