Chapter 4

Four

T he following day, Emily sat at her mahogany writing desk, the soft scratch of quill on parchment filling the air as she reviewed the menus for her son’s upcoming school break. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the leaded-glass windows, illuminating the gentle curves of her face.

Cook’s roast pheasant with chestnut stuffing, she thought, a soft smile playing on her lips. Mathew always adored that dish. Her heart fluttered with anticipation as she imagined her son’s delight upon returning home to his favorite meals.

As Emily continued to pen her notes, her thoughts drifted to Mr. Winters. She wondered about his culinary preferences, her quill hovering above the parchment as she contemplated.

Perhaps he favors hearty stews, she mused, then shook her head with a soft laugh. Oh, Emily, you must not pry into the affairs of your guests.

Yet, as she returned her attention to the menus, she could not quite shake the image of Mr. Winters’ teasing eyes and the way they seemed to dance with amusement whenever they conversed. A faint blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled their last encounter. His humor persisted, even as he struggled through his fever.

It would be remiss of her not to ensure his comfort, Emily reasoned, attempting to justify her curiosity. After all, a proper hostess should attend to her guests’ needs.

She tapped her quill against her chin, lost in thought. But would it be too forward to inquire directly? Did it matter, given his reputation?

A gentle knock at the door interrupted Emily’s internal debate. “My lady,” came the voice of her housekeeper. “I have brought you some tea.”

“Thank you,” Emily replied, grateful for the distraction. As the older woman entered with a silver tray, Emily’s gaze fell upon the steaming pot of tea and delicate china cups. An idea struck her.

“Mrs. Thatcher,” she began, her tone carefully measured, “I was wondering if you might have noticed any particular preferences Mr. Winters has shown regarding his meals?”

The housekeeper’s eyebrows raised slightly, but she answered without hesitation. “Why yes, my lady. The gentleman seems quite partial to Cook’s beef Wellington and has praised her apple tarts most enthusiastically.”

Emily smiled at this newfound information. “How fortuitous. Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher. You have been most helpful.”

As the housekeeper curtsied and left the room, Emily turned back to her planning with renewed vigor. Her quill flew across the parchment, adding Mr. Winters’ favorites alongside Mathew’s preferred dishes.

“There,” she said, satisfaction evident in her voice. “A menu to please both my dear son and our unexpected guest.” That is, if Mr. Winters remained for Christmas.

Emily’s cheeks warmed at the thought, and she chided herself for such improper musings. Yet, as she glanced out the window at the snow-covered grounds, she could not help but feel a ripple of anticipation for the days to come.

She rose from her desk, her fingers grazing the spine of a leather-bound volume of Shakespearean sonnets. With a decisive nod, she plucked the book from its resting place and cradled it against her chest before grabbing another. The weight of the books steadied her resolve as she made her way toward Mr. Winters’ chamber.

As she traversed the corridor, her mind whirred with conflicting thoughts. What if he had remembered why he was traveling? Her pace slowed as she mulled it over. Or worse, what if he had not? How long could she justify withholding the letter? Would he make a hasty departure once he remembered? The carpet muffled her footsteps, but her heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet hallway.

She paused before his door, drawing a deep breath. “Come now, Emily,” she chided herself softly. She was simply checking on an ill guest. Nothing more. Yet, as she raised her hand to knock, she could not ignore the flutter in her stomach.

Her knuckles barely grazed the wood when a muffled voice called out, “Enter, if you must,” came the reply, full of mock suffering. “Though I fear I am a lost cause today.”

Her lips curved into an involuntary smile at his playful tone. She pushed the door open, stepping into the warm, fire-lit room. “I do hope I am not disturbing your theatrical musings, Mr. Winters.” Her gaze moved to his form, propped up against a mound of pillows.

“Lady Gilford,” His eyes twinkling with mischief despite his pallor. “you could never be a disturbance. Though I must say, your timing is impeccable. I was just about to pen a sonnet about the abject misery of convalescence.”

Emily chuckled, settling into the chair beside his bed. “Well, we cannot have that. I have brought something that might lift your spirits and save us all from your poetic lamentations.”

As she held up the book of sonnets, Emily studied his face, searching for any sign of recollection or distress. But his expression remained open and amused, betraying nothing of his mysterious arrival on her property. She bit her lower lip, wondering once more if she should give him the letter.

“Ah, the Bard himself,” he said, eyeing the book. “Come to rescue me from my own inferior verses. How kind of you, my lady.”

Emily’s fingers tightened on the book, her internal debate raging. Should she mention the letter? He was regaining strength, but the roads remained treacherous and he was far from recovered. The moment stretched taut with unspoken words.

Her hesitation was cut short as she noticed a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Concern overtook her conflicted thoughts, and she set the book aside.

“Mr. Winters, you are burning up,” she said, her voice laced with worry. She reached for the basin of cool water on the nightstand, wringing out a fresh cloth.

“Am I?” he asked, his eyelids drooping. “And here I thought your radiant presence simply overwhelmed me.”

She shook her head, a mix of exasperation and amusement coloring her features. Even in his weakened state, the man’s charm seemed irrepressible. She leaned forward, pressing the cool cloth to his forehead.

“I daresay your fever has addled your wits, sir,” she said, her tone softening as she tended to him, “but I see your humor is as intact as ever.”

His eyes fluttered open at her touch, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “On the contrary, my lady,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “I find my spirits quite buoyed by your attentions.”

Emily felt a warmth creep into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. She fussed over the cloth, hoping it would calm both his fever and her own racing heart.

She chided herself for allowing her thoughts to wander. A respectable widow had no business entertaining such notions—yet here she was, her heart betraying her reason with every glance in his direction. It would not do to encourage such flirtations, no matter how charming the man might be.

“You flatter me, Mr. Winters,” she said, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “But your recovery should be your primary concern.”

Emily settled into the chair beside his bed, smoothing her skirts as she sought to regain her composure. She reached for the book she had brought, her fingers tracing the embossed leather cover.

“Perhaps some reading might aid your recovery.” She held the books up. “I have brought Wordsworth’s ‘Lyrical Ballads,’ along with Shakespeare’s sonnets. I find poetry quite soothing.”

Mr. Winters’ eyebrows arched playfully. “My dear Lady Gilford, your melodious voice would be far more effective in lulling me to health than mere words on a page.”

Emily felt her cheeks warm once more, but she refused to be flustered. “I see your silver tongue remains unaffected by your ailment,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “One might think you were trying to charm the entire household.”

“Only the parts of it that matter.” He winked, then grimaced slightly.

Concern overtook Emily’s features. She leaned forward, adjusting the cloth on his forehead. “Come now, Mr. Winters. Let us set aside this banter for the moment. Your health is of paramount importance. You really must be serious.”

Determined to regain her composure, she cleared her throat and opened the book.

As she did so, she could not help but wonder how long it would be until he remembered something, or everything, about his mysterious arrival. Surely, if he already had, he would have mentioned it. She pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“We shall begin with ‘Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey’,” she said, her voice taking on a soothing cadence as she read aloud.

Emily’s voice filled the room, the soothing words of Wordsworth’s poetry flowing from her lips like honey. As she read, her gaze flicked occasionally from the page to Mr. Winters’ face, noting the rapt attention with which he listened. His gaze, more often than not dancing with mischief, was now fixed upon her with an intensity that sent a nervous thrill down her spine.

“Five years have passed; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters. And again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur...”

He shifted his gaze to Emily’s face. “You read beautifully,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I can almost feel the cool mist of the river on my skin.”

As his gaze held hers, a sudden tension passed between them, one that went beyond the surface flirtation. Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she forgot the lines she had intended to read.

A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I am glad you are finding it so immersive. Poetry has always been a balm for my soul in times of distress.”

She continued reading, her voice painting vivid pictures of the natural world. As she spoke of “steep and lofty cliffs” and “wild secluded scenes,” Emily found herself transported as well, memories of peaceful walks through the estate’s grounds flooding her mind.

After some time, her voice began to tire. She finished the poem, placing a silk bookmark between the pages before setting the book aside. Her gaze lingered on Mr. Winters, taking in the sheen of perspiration on his brow.

“I believe it is time to refresh your compress.” She reached for the cloth. As she gently dabbed his forehead, she could not help but notice the way his gaze followed her every movement. There was something in his expression—something beyond his usual charm and wit—that made her breath catch.

She leaned in closer, her voice low, soothing. “You must rest now in order to regain your strength.” Her warm breath ghosted across his cheek, causing a slight shiver to run through him. “I shall return later with your supper.”

He offered a roguish grin, despite his fevered state. “Promise me it will not be gruel, my lady. I fear I might expire from boredom if subjected to such bland fare.”

A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “I assure you, sir, our cook takes great pride in her invalid dishes. You will find supper both nourishing and palatable.”

“Ah, but will the feast be as delightful as your company?” he said, his voice roughened by fatigue but still carrying that teasing lilt.

She felt a blush creep up her neck. “I am certain you will survive the brief interlude without my presence, Mr. Winters,” she said, her tone admonishing but tinged with amusement.

As she rose from her chair, Emily’s movements were fluid and graceful. She smoothed her skirts, acutely aware of his gaze following her.

“Until later,” she said, offering a small curtsy. “Do try to get some rest.”

He nodded, his eyes already beginning to droop. “I shall dream of poetry and kind-hearted widows,” he teased, a ghost of a smile flirting at the edge of his lips.

Emily paused at the door, her hand on the latch. She glanced back, taking in the sight of him, his dark hair tousled against the pillow, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A warmth spread through her, tinged with the quiet thrill of having spent time with him again.

With a gentle click, she closed the door behind her, her thoughts swirling with conflicting emotions. It had been far too long since she had kept company with a man. Since a man had made her blush and long for more…

Her footsteps echoed against the carpeted corridor as she made her way back to her sitting room. Her mind wandered to the gentle cadence of his voice, the way he remained lighthearted, even through his illness. She shook her head, trying to dispel the longing that spread through her at the memory.

This is folly, she thought, her fingers absently tracing the pattern on the wallpaper as she walked. He was not for her.

As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with her housekeeper.

“Oh! My apologies, Mrs. Thatcher.” Emily startled from her reverie.

The older woman’s gaze twinkled knowingly. “No harm done, my lady. I trust Mr. Winters is resting comfortably?”

Emily nodded, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Yes, quite. Though I fear his appetite for teasing remains undiminished by his illness.”

Mrs. Thatcher chuckled. “Aye, that one’s a charmer, no doubt. Reminds me of my late husband, God rest his soul. I do believe Mr. Winters is a refreshing distraction, my lady.”

“Mrs. Thatcher,” Emily said, “surely you are not suggesting?—”

“I’m suggesting nothing, my lady.” The housekeeper grinned. “Merely observing that a bit of laughter does wonders for the spirit, especially during trying times.”

Emily sighed, her resolve wavering. “Perhaps, but a respectable widow such as myself?—”

“—deserves happiness,” Mrs. Thatcher finished firmly. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I’ve known you since you were a girl. You’ve carried your burdens with grace, but even the strongest shoulders need rest.”

Emily’s eyes stung with unexpected tears. “Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher,” she said softly. “Your kindness means more than you know.”

As the housekeeper bustled away, Emily continued her walk, her thoughts a tumultuous mix of longing and propriety. Mr. Winters was a rogue, yes, but there was a gentleness beneath his rakish exterior that called to her. Still, she had responsibilities—to her son, to her reputation, to the memory of her late husband.

There could be no future with Mr. Winters, she reminded herself. And yet, no matter how often she told herself that, her traitorous heart whispered of possibilities.