Chapter Nineteen

G eorge’s day had been just as long and eventful as Belle’s, but he could not possibly sleep yet. Not with an idea taunting him, just out of reach. He knew he stood on the verge of something brilliant, but could not quite tell what. He only knew that he needed to explore the idea of Recusants and priest holes. There was a story there, somehow. He knew it. He just couldn’t quite nail down a workable plot.

He must have stayed up for at least an hour, scribbling down possibilities, only to cross each one off when he realized it wouldn’t work. He would probably have kept working for longer if not for the fact that his candle unexpectedly went out.

Oh . He’d forgotten to trim the wick. Had he really been writing for that long? He put down his notebook and pencil and stretched. His hand ached from writing and his eyes burned from lack of sleep, though he had noticed neither irritation until now.

He adjusted his pillow, lay back down, and closed his eyes—but he struggled to sleep. His mind kept sorting through different plot possibilities, trying to figure out how to fit Recusants and priest holes into a social satire about courtship among the aristocracy.

He must have fallen asleep eventually, because late the next morning, Belle shook him awake. “George! You must get up. Your cousin called on us and I have run out of things to say to him. Please don’t make me talk to him any longer?”

“Cousin?” George sat up and yawned. He rubbed his face sleepily. The rough stubble reminded him that he’d better shave before he saw anyone. “Wait, did you say my cousin? Which one?” Vincent’s parish lay farther south, in Shropshire. So far as George knew, his nearest cousins were Augustus and Benedict, down in Manchester. He could imagine no reason why they would want to visit him, though. He barely knew the relatives on that side of the family.

“I don’t remember what his first name was.” Belle sounded fretful, and she rubbed her hands together anxiously. “Benjamin, maybe? Bennett? The one we met at your uncle’s house in Bath.”

“Benedict.” Damn! George closed his eyes as he silently rallied his spirits. He was not entirely sure that he could face his cousin so soon after waking. Even when George had a good night’s sleep, it took considerable time for his mind to start working properly in the morning. Today, after staying up so late jotting down possible story ideas, a mental fog as thick and opaque as a London particular clouded his mind.

“I will be down in a few minutes.” He knew it was a rash promise, but what else could he say? Go away and don’t come back! would have been the most honest response to Benedict’s presence, but there were things one simply could not say to one’s relatives. “Please have someone bring a cup of tea up to me, though?” He could not face Benedict without his morning cup of tea.

It took more than a few minutes to get himself dressed, shaven, and thoroughly woken up. Mrs. Hastings, bless her heart, sent up a tray with a full pot of hot water, so he could brew his tea as strong as he liked and drink as much as he liked. She also sent a sweet roll slathered with strawberry jam. That went far in helping George find his sea legs, so to speak.

Benedict was probably not happy about being made to wait so long, but George did not particularly mind making his cousin suffer a little. It was his fault for making an unannounced visit to a pair of newlyweds! Most people would have given George and Belle a little time to adjust to matrimony and their new home before showing up unexpectedly. Or showing up at all, really.

When he finally entered the parlor, George did his best to hide his irritation. “Benedict! What a pleasant surprise! What brings you to Pendleford?”

George offered his cousin his hand. For a tense moment, it seemed his cousin might refuse to shake hands. But Benedict finally returned the gesture with a half-hearted shake before returning to his seat.

“I happened to be in the area, and thought I might as well visit you. After all, we are family.”

“Indeed we are,” George agreed. Family who almost never saw each other, up until that fateful dinner party in Bath. Now George seemed to run into Benedict wherever he went. He did not think that was an improvement. “Here for business, I suppose?” This region of Lancashire had long been a stronghold of the fabric industry, so he ought not be surprised his relatives still in trade might travel through Pendleford.

But Benedict shook his head. “Purely pleasure this time.” He smiled perfunctorily. “I am just traveling through on my way north. As you may recall, I am to be married very soon. I thought my bride and I might take a wedding tour in the Lake region, as it is close to home.” He paused, then seemed to recall that the Lake District had more than proximity to Manchester to recommend it. “And of course, the area is very charming. Full of scenic sights, and quaint cottages, and, um, poets and such.”

“Yes, I believe that’s where Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge wrote Lyrical Ballads .” George had, in fact, no very clear idea of where the so-called Lake School poets had lived before the publication of their first book, but the region was certainly associated with their poetry now. “Do you fancy yourself a poet?” He had a difficult time imagining it, but in fairness, George did not know Benedict very well. Perhaps he had hidden depths.

“Oh, goodness, no.” Benedict chuckled. “Poetry is more your line than mine, cousin. But my fiancée, Miss Buxton, is rather partial to poetry. I believe she would enjoy spending a week or two wandering among the, um, moors.” The rise at the end of his voice suggested that even he knew that “moors” was not quite the right word.

“There are plenty of charming woods in the area,” George suggested. “And rivers, waterfalls, and of course the lakes themselves. They all make for pleasant walks in the morning or evening. It is an excellent place for a wedding tour.” He had only visited the Lake District once, but his suggestions felt safe, given that he was merely repeating the standard tourist advice.

“Precisely.” Benedict’s smile looked no more natural this time than it had before. “Have you any particular locations to recommend?”

“If Miss Buxton is partial to poetry, you could do no better than to take her to Grasmere, in Westmoreland.” What George particularly liked about Grasmere was its distance from Pendleford. There would be no reason for Benedict and his bride to stop at Dogwood Cottage again on their way to the lakes, would there? Lord, he hoped not!

“That is exactly what Lucretia said. I mean, Miss Buxton. She would like to see Grasmere.” This time, the smile that bloomed across Benedict’s face looked genuine.

Interesting. George rapidly readjusted his understanding of the relationship between Benedict and his fiancée. He had assumed that Benedict proposed to Miss Buxton only to secure the inheritance from Uncle William. Benedict might not have the same fond memories of Dogwood Cottage that George had, but he might have been attracted by the financial investments that accompanied the house. Twenty thousand pounds was nothing to sneeze at!

But George knew he had not imagined the fond look that crossed his cousin’s face when he talked of Miss Buxton. Benedict must really have an attachment to his fiancée. A faint smile teased at the corners of George’s own mouth at this hint that there was more than greed to his cousin.

An unexpected impulse caused George to extend an invitation he’d never expected to offer. “If you like, you and Miss Buxton are welcome to break your journey here. We are a little out of your way, I know, but you would be welcome to our hospitality.”

Benedict froze, and some indecipherable emotion swept across his face. It vanished before George could make sense of it.

“We would not wish to inconvenience you,” Benedict said, “but I believe Miss Buxton would like to see Dogwood Cottage someday, since she has heard so much about it.” He averted his eyes as his cheeks reddened. Probably he had just recalled how recently he and George had been rivals for ownership of the cottage.

“I don’t know what your plans are, but would you care to dine with us tonight?” George offered. “Or at least take a little luncheon?”

Benedict’s face brightened. “My commitments do not allow me to dine here, but I would be happy to share luncheon with you.”

George rang for a maid, then left Benedict alone so that he could find Belle. He looked in every room on the ground floor before he thought to go back upstairs and poke his head into her studio. There he found her at work at her drawing table, using one of her crayons to add color to a landscape she had penciled in earlier that week.

He hovered over her shoulder for a minute, watching her work. Up until now, most of the art Belle had produced since coming to Dogwood Cottage had focused on the garden. She’d sketched groupings of flowers over and over again, and a few of the compositions had satisfied her tastes enough to be redone in color. This picture, however, was not a close-up of a grouping of flowers. It was a full landscape, looking out over the garden gate at the river Pendle, and the focus of the picture was a bird of prey swooping down towards the water.

“Are you going to add a fish?” George blurted out.

Belle flinched. “Oh! I did not notice you were there.”

He hurried to apologize. “I ought not have interrupted you.” Especially given how much he grumbled any time she interrupted him in his writing. “I came up to say that Benedict is going to stay for lunch. I meant to ask if you would join us. But if you are too busy, or do not feel comfortable, I will simply tell him you are out.”

Belle rolled her shoulders and shook out her hand. “I could use a spot of luncheon myself,” she admitted. “And it is only one guest. I do not mind helping you entertain him.”

“Are you sure? I know you are not comfortable with strangers—”

She interrupted him before he could express any more concern. “Your cousin ought not be a stranger here. It is true that I do not know Mr. Benedict Kirkland, but I should like to be on good terms with all your family. As much as possible.” She crinkled her nose, as if thinking of the many conflicts that might sow disunity in a large, extended family. “Just let me wash up a bit, and I will join you.” She held her right hand up, revealing an assortment of colorful smudges.

“You are as bad with your crayons as I am with my ink,” George said cheerfully. “By all means, wash up.” He hastily checked his own hands to make sure that there were no ink stains left over from last night’s work. He knew it was vain of him, but he did not want to remind Benedict that he, too, worked for his bread.

The lunch went far better than George could have anticipated. Belle seemed in good spirits. She remained as quiet as she usually did when meeting strangers, but she poured tea and handed around sandwiches as gracefully as if she had spent years hosting meals.

A flicker of pride danced in George’s heart as he watched Belle play the part of the lady of the house. That was his wife! His thoughts turned to pity for his town-dwelling cousin. Benedict would probably never have a charming rural cottage or a wife this beautiful. Poor man!

After lunch, George happily showed Benedict around the house and garden. Though the morning had been sunny and warm, a rainstorm rolled toward the cottage, bringing with it a cool breeze that made walking through the orchard refreshing rather than fatiguing.

Benedict stayed quiet for most of the tour, asking only a few questions about the history of the cottage. George told him what he’d learned about the Finch family, including the fact that Finches were said to have once hidden a Romish priest from the pursuivants. Benedict’s eyes widened as George elaborated on his theory that the legend of hidden treasure might have arisen because of the measures taken by the Recusant family.

“Fascinating,” Benedict concluded.

“I did not realize that you were interested in history,” George admitted. “Is it a hobby of yours?”

His cousin shrugged. “I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a hobby, but when one visits a new location, one might as well learn its history.” One of his rare genuine smiles brightened his face. “My mother will be proud to hear that I am cultivating my mind. She’s always after me to study more.”

George nodded, but wisely held his tongue. He’d heard Uncle William grumble that Augustus had gotten all the brains of his family, leaving his twin with “less than a full pint.” This seemed unfair, Benedict did not seem at all lack-witted, though he might not be as well-read as the rest of the Kirkland men.

They turned and wandered back up to the house. “Where does that door go?” Benedict pointed at the solid wooden door that opened into the garden.

“It just leads into the main corridor of the house,” George explained. “Most people prefer the side door in the kitchen, though I’m not sure why.” He gestured in the direction of the kitchen door as they walked slowly around the house. “I suppose that makes it easier to guard the doors, though. We can just let our guard dog sleep in the kitchen at night.”

To be sure, they had not yet had a chance to test Bowser’s guarding abilities. George had no idea where the puppy had slept last night, for that matter. Maybe Mrs. Hastings had put a blanket down for him in the kitchen, as George suggested. Or maybe someone had taken him out to the barn, as Mrs. Hastings recommended, to avoid any late-night accidents. George supposed he’d better ask about that when he got the chance.

George parted from Benedict in a much better frame of mind than when he woke that morning. He extended his best wishes for the felicity of the new couple, then bade his cousin farewell. Energized by their stroll in the orchard, he sat down to write. For once, he found the right words almost immediately. After months of struggling to put pen to paper, he could finally write.

The problem was, he was writing the wrong story. Since George still had no idea how to fix Ermintrude , he began what he thought would probably be a short story about an old house with a secret cupboard, a hidden staircase, and a mysterious box of letters. But two hours later, he looked at what he’d drafted and realized that it was the opening chapters of a much longer work. Somehow, George had accidentally started drafting a new novel.

He stared at the paper as he stretched his cramped hand and rolled his neck. Only now did he notice the minor aches and pains left after sitting hunched over his desk. He would have liked to keep working, but he didn’t think his hand could stand any more writing. Pushing himself too far would be a good way to develop rheumatism in his writing hand!

What time was it, anyway? He had no idea how long he’d been writing. He put a hand in his waistcoat pocket, but though he had two clean handkerchiefs today, he did not have his pocket watch. He must’ve left it upstairs. But his stomach rumbled a suggestion that it must be near dinner time. Certainly, luncheon seemed hours away.

George got to his feet and stretched, then bounded upstairs in such a hurry that he nearly crashed into Belle coming down the stairs.

“You’re not dressed for dinner yet?” Her eyes opened wide with surprise.

“Er, no,” he admitted. “But it’ll only take me a minute.”

A line formed between Belle’s brows. “I suppose since it is just us, you could dine without changing. There is nothing wrong with your clothes.” She studied him intently, and her frown deepened. “Apart from the ink stains on your cuff, I mean.”

“Let me at least change my shirt.” Swapping out his soiled shirt for a clean one was easy, a matter of minutes. Putting aside all thoughts of his new novel in order to pay attention to the meal proved more challenging.

During the soup course, George wondered if writing from the first-person perspective might be better than using an omniscient narrator. He very nearly forgot to carve the beefsteak because he couldn’t decide whether to include a love story in addition to the main plot. And he completely ignored dessert while trying to decide what quirky character traits he could use to distinguish the antagonist from his equally nefarious assistant.

“Is something wrong?” Belle asked.

“Hmm?” He looked up from his empty wineglass. “Why would something be wrong?” So far as he was concerned, something had finally gone right for a change! He was writing again. New ideas rushed into his mind, one after another, like a fresh spring welling up in the desert. He had not realized how much he’d thirsted for creative work.

“You seem distracted.” Belle spoke softly, and she stared down at her plate, as if she were afraid to criticize him.

“I’m sorry,” George said quickly. “I am distracted. I’ve started working on a new—” He almost said, “a new novel,” but he caught himself in time. “A new idea. For an essay, I mean.”

“Oh.” She lifted her eyes, and her whole face brightened. “What are you writing about?”

“Ah…” George glanced about the room, as if hoping to find the answer hidden somewhere. Hidden? Of course! “Recusant families. You know, since there were so many of them here in Lancashire. I thought I might as well take advantage of our location. I could do some local research.” He felt proud of himself for having come up with so plausible an answer on such short notice.

“Oh, interesting!”

They continued to talk, but as soon as he could, George excused himself from the table. He hurried back to the study, dipped his quill in ink, and returned to his writing. He knew from experience that if he did not get all his ideas down now, they might disappear entirely. Best to strike while the iron was hot!