Chapter Four

W hile Francesca, dazed, watched them go, George wound the well bucket down to collect water. He was pouring it into the bucket at her feet before she found her voice.

"Thank you."

"How long has their harassment been as bad as this?" He didn't look at her but lowered the bucket into the well once more.

She swallowed. "They have never been so blatantly threatening before."

"I hope I have not made it worse. I wanted to frighten them a little, shock them back into some semblance of reality."

She frowned. "How do you know Mr. Paston?"

"Never met him in my life, though I do intend to speak to him. I discovered in the village that he is the magistrate. Have you spoken to him before?"

"About those two and their ilk? And charge them with what? Calling me names?"

"There are suitable laws," George assured her.

"I would rather it did not come to that. I have to live here. And their families have to live."

"Not at the expense of yours," George said, unloading the second bucket and returning it to the well. "They are bullies of the worst kind. But a word of warning from Mr. Paston should be enough. They think you are alone and unprotected."

I am . Worse, she was Mark's only protection. She shivered. "Perhaps my pride has got in the way. And Mrs. Paston is a friend of the vicar's wife."

"Who insulted you in the first place."

Both her pails were filled now. He covered the well and, as she bent to lift the buckets, he picked them up instead.

She walked beside him with a murmur of thanks. Her hands were shaking. "They were frightened of you."

"Not at first." He gave a quick, rueful smile. "Jack was in the inn last night when I asked for a room. I did not cut a brave figure."

"You certainly made up for it this afternoon," she said warmly. In fact, she began to see the funny side of the encounter. "I have never seen anyone so haughty, so perfectly, politely, in command."

"I learned it from a friend of mine who plays the supercilious nobleman to perfection. Of course, he is a nobleman, which helps."

She laughed, and he smiled back. Unexpected happiness surged through her. What a shame he would leave. She would never see him again. But she would never regret knowing him.

"How is your chaise?" she asked.

He wrinkled his nose. "The wheelwright is busy on it. It will not be ready today. Apparently, the inn can supply a replacement vehicle, but not before tomorrow morning. By which time, I hope my own chaise will be ready. But at least the inn is emptying. I can have a room there tonight."

"Or you may stay here," she blurted, glad only that he would not leave today. She cleared her throat. "Mark will be glad of your company."

*

Was it possible she would be too? He had been appalled by the threatening behavior of those two louts by the well, and in truth, he was reluctant to leave her without resolving the issue with some certainty.

He had seen how shaken she was, how helpless. The louts had seen it too, unfortunately. He only hoped his own intervention had been enough to convince them she was not helpless. Or unprotected.

Accordingly, after a quick cup of tea and detailed directions, he remounted his hired horse and rode up to Paston Hall, where he sent in his card with a request for an immediate interview with the magistrate.

He was shown at once into the study, where Paston welcomed him with every courtesy. He was a distinguished man of middle years, a little self-important in his speech, perhaps, but attentive and clearly concerned that a gentleman traveler should be in need of his services.

"It is not really on my own behalf I have come," George said, settling into the chair he was offered. "I was merely forced by a carriage accident to stay in the village last night. You may or may not have been aware that a prizefight took place in the vicinity this morning?"

Mr. Paston blushed slightly, and George said at once, "No, no, that is not my complaint. My problem was merely that there were no rooms available at the inn, and some of the locals directed me—maliciously, I now suspect—to Hazel House. In my naiveté, I imagined it to be a lodging house of some kind, not the private residence of a gentleman's widow and her child."

"Ah," Mr. Paston said. "I trust Mrs. Hazel has not caused you offense?"

Goerge felt his jaw drop. " Mrs. Hazel ? Of course not. Because of the storm and my own semi-drowned condition by the time I got there, she felt obliged to give me shelter. Sir, my concern is that I was sent there as some kind of trick. These tricks seem to have become a habit with certain elements within the village. What is more, those same people subject Mrs. Hazel to insult and inuendo on an almost daily basis. And they are growing bolder."

"Mrs. Hazel's reputation—" Paston began apologetically.

"Is being slandered daily," George interrupted. "I am aware of it. I doubt you can be, sir, for I am aware the lady has made no complaint to you. However, when I returned to the house this afternoon, with the intention of collecting my baggage and removing to the inn, I found two of the same villagers who had sent me there last night, in the midst of some ploy or other. They seemed to be trying to put Mrs. Hazel's cat down the well in her yard, no doubt with the aim of frightening her. And when she attempted to send them about their business, their manner was undoubtedly threatening. I hate to imagine what might have happened had I not arrived on the scene."

"I'm sure you are worrying unnecessarily," Paston said, with just a shade of anxiety. "Who were these men?"

"One Jack Forest and Bill Kell, I believe."

"Ah. Wastrels, to be honest. But not dangerous, I assure you."

"I hope you are right," George said at once. "Because I very much doubt that if your wife was left a widow—God forbid—you would like to think of her being harassed, insulted, and jostled by such apparently non-dangerous wastrels."

Paston blinked rapidly. George could almost see him weighing what he knew against the gossip of his wife and, hopefully, imagining her in a similar situation. Certainly, he looked alarmed for the first time. George pushed his point home.

"As you know," he said mildly, "the fact that she once played music on the stage does not deprive her of the protection of the law. My own feeling is that the matter need not progress to formal complaints if informal steps are taken now. If they are not, I fear a genuine tragedy that will affect the whole community."

Again, Paston looked startled. He licked his lips. "These men are bullies," he replied. "I'll have a word with them and with a few others tomorrow. It should be enough."

"Thank you," George said. "I believe it will be." He rose to his feet. "Ordinary people often follow the lead of their betters. Perhaps if the local gentlemen's wives were to call on her and include her occasionally…"

Mr. Paston looked appalled.

"Ah. You have forbidden your wife from calling on Mrs. Hazel?" George said innocently.

"Of course not," Paston said, looking genuinely shocked. "My wife chooses her own friends, and I have never interfered. In fact, when Hazel was alive, he and his wife dined here more than once."

And the fact that she had clearly not been invited since would not have been lost on the villagers.

Paston must have realized that, for he cleared his throat. "Thank you for bringing the matter to my attention."

"I believe Mrs. Hazel was too proud to ask for your help. But I could not in all conscience leave the area without making you aware of her plight."

"When do you leave us, sir?"

"Tomorrow, when my chaise should be fully repaired. In the circumstances, I shall stay tonight at Hazel House. My faith is in you to quash any unseemly rumors of my reasons."

"Oh, quite, Sir Arthur. Quite."

George offered his hand. "Good day!"

Mr. Paston gravely shook his hand.

*

By the time George came back, Francesca had pulled herself together, able to concentrate on the humor of the confrontation at the well rather than on her own terrible feeling of powerlessness.

He came in through the kitchen, as if he had known that was where she would be. It was odd the way her mood instantly brightened, not only with relief but with a curious sense of ease, as if now everything was right. It was not, of course. He would leave tomorrow.

"Paston will have a quiet word in the first instance," he said at once. "He might even persuade his wife to call upon you later. I doubt you wish to be friends with her, but you should probably accept her for the good of your reputation in the neighborhood. She owes you that much and more."

Francesca laid down the knife with which she was cutting vegetables and wiped her hands on her apron before pulling it off. "How did you manage that?" she asked cynically.

"I think I got him to consider his own wife in such a situation. I have found that many people lack the empathy to imagine themselves in another's position. I used to be one of them. I have learned. Others can too. To some, of course, it is an inconvenience because they wish to believe someone less than they are. I call it dehumanizing."

Francesca sank onto the nearest stool, indicating he should sit also. He did, and Ada brought them each a cup of tea before retreating to her stove.

"I have become inhuman?" Francesca asked, wondering if she should be offended.

"To people like Jack and Bill, yes. Probably also to the vicar's wife and Mrs. Paston, even Mr. Paston. They will have convinced themselves that because you once played on the stage you are not respectable and are therefore unworthy of normal, human consideration. It is not right, but it happens."

Something in his voice made her peer more closely. "Did it happen to you?"

His eyes slid away. But he nodded. And then he moved his gaze back to hers, as though with conscious bravery. She wanted to take his hand and assure him he was one of the finest human beings she had ever met.

He said, "As a child, I did not always understand what was expected of me. And no one seemed to understand me. Except my little brother. My father thought I was stupid, then mad. Then one day he explained to me that Hugh, my brother, would make a better heir to his land and title. I believed him and promised to help Hugh in every way I could. In due time, my father died and Hugh inherited according to plan. I was happy to help him make the land profitable, and to invest wisely and cleverly on the Exchange. It was only gradually that I realized he was taking everything, and I had nothing but two rooms and a garden in the house that should by rights have been mine."

Francesca set down her cup. "But that is monstrous and surely illegal!"

George smiled sadly. "I had become less than human to my brother. I was a tool, a machine, to be guarded but not cared for."

"What happened?"

"I had little to do but read. I longed to see the world I learned of in books, to meet people other than Hugh and his wife and our old nurse. Hugh and Caroline had ambitions too, and to further them, he hired a lady, ostensibly to be a companion to Caroline but really to help look after me so that they could go away together for longer periods of time. That lady, Hera, became my first friend. The man she married, a doctor, was my second. They helped me to see my worth and to understand that I was the better man to have the land and the title. So I took them back."

She searched his eyes, aching for the pain of betrayal he must have suffered, admiring the spirit that had made him into the assured, gentle man who sat across the table, quietly drinking his tea in her kitchen.

"Good," she said. "And you are telling me this because I should take back control of my life, too?"

"The situations are different. But I would like to help you in any small way I can. As Hera helped me."

"You already have," she said, through a peculiar tightness in her throat.

He poured some more tea from the pot into both their cups. "I have another confession."

"You have?"

He cast her a slightly crooked smile. "When I was in the village this morning, I posted a letter to some friends in London. It is possible you will receive a visit from the Duchess of Cuttyngham. She is Hera's sister-in-law. You should not look surprised if she greets you as though you are old friends."

After a stunned moment, she began to laugh. "You are like a fairy godmother! Or should I say godfather?"

"Neither, if you please," he said, and she laughed harder—which might have accounted for the tears she had to wipe from her face.

*

Dinner was a very pleasant meal. They dined early so that Mark could join them, but the autumn nights were drawing in and it was already dark. Ada and Martin both served at a very slow pace and then departed, leaving them to help themselves thereafter.

"I think you need younger servants," George observed.

"We might be able to afford them this year," Mark piped up, with no concept of discretion, repeating only what Francesca had once said to him. "Then Ada and Martin can retire with a pension."

"I see. Very proper," George said, leaving her to wonder what on earth he made of it in reality. But he changed the subject, and the rest of the time was spent in lively conversation and laughter.

Afterward, Francesca took Mark upstairs to bed.

"You will write to me, won't you, sir?" Mark said anxiously from the drawing room door.

George, who was pouring himself a glass of brandy, at Francesca's invitation, glanced at him. "Of course I will. But we will meet again in in the morning."

Mark grinned and allowed himself to be led off. "I like Sir George," he confided on the stairs. "Do you?"

"Yes, very much."

"That is what I told Papa. He likes him too, now."

Francesca glanced at him doubtfully, wondering how she should respond. "Why?" she asked at last.

"Because he stood up for you."

"When?" she asked.

"At the well this afternoon."

Mark had not seen the incident at the well. She knew from Martin, who had been tending to the bedroom fires at the time, that Mark had been playing in his own room at the other side of the house.

"Who told you about that?" she asked.

"Papa, of course."

A ripple of unease twisted through her. Could something of Percival really have remained here after all? She wanted him to be resting in peace.

Yet as they entered Mark's room, it struck her that her late husband's presence, even if only in memory, had grown stronger in the last few days. In Mark's imagination and her own. Which was odd when Sir George was here and causing her to think of so many other possibilities in her life.

When she returned to the drawing room, George was seated with his brandy on the table beside him, a book open on his knee. He rose at once, asking if he could fetch anything for her. She smiled and shook her head. The evening would pass all too quickly without addling her wits with more wine. And tomorrow he would go. An ache within her intensified and spread.

Eager to learn all she could of him, she asked him more about his life, his estates in Lincolnshire. She was intrigued to learn he had been in Brussels during the Waterloo campaign and met the Duke of Wellington himself. He did not dwell on the aftermath of the great battle where so many had died, but she gathered he had played his part in transporting the wounded and that the experience still pained him. Having seen something of war herself, she understood.

Deliberately, he lightened the conversation, but she could think of nothing to say except, " Tomorrow you will be gone and I will be lonely again. It will be so much worse than before, because now I have known you. " And she could not say that. How could she even believe it herself when she had known him barely twenty-four hours?

Silence stretched between them. She wanted to break it yet was afraid of saying something stupid just to keep him here, something that would betray her sudden vulnerability. But somehow, his presence was so comfortable that her tension eased and she simply enjoyed his silence.

"I have to thank you for another delightful evening," he said at last, rising to his feet. "In fact, for all your kindness."

"Nonsense. You have returned any kindness tenfold." She stood also, facing him with too much space between then. "May we not simply be friends?"

She was slightly hurt when he appeared to think about it before answering. "Simply, I doubt," he said. "But friends, most definitely." His sensitive mouth twitched into a half-smile. "I would like us to meet again."

Her heart beat faster. "So would I," she admitted, and his smile broadened. She caught her breath.

She wanted him to take her hand. She wanted to touch him, kiss his cheek, anything to show friendship, to bring them closer. She knew instinctively that he would not take advantage. And he would not touch her.

Before she could gather her courage, he murmured, "Goodnight." Then he bowed and walked away, much as he had done last night. It seemed a lifetime ago.

Restlessly, she moved toward the piano, and the urge to play overwhelmed her. She wanted to express this sudden emotion and soothe it at the same time. And it was better than thinking, even with her nerves jangled.

She sat on the stool with something of a bump, instantly spreading her hands across the keys, and began to play, letting her fingers go where they willed. After a little, she fell into Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata , and played her heart out. She knew it was for him, even if he could not hear her.

But someone was listening. She felt the presence, the shadow in the doorway. For an instant, she wondered if it were Percival haunting her for her faithlessness. But of course it was not.

It moved, and she stopped abruptly, stumbling to her feet, staring at George as he crossed the room. Even before he came to a halt right in front of her, she could see the admiration in his eyes, the dancing spark of excitement and knowledge. As though he had read her feelings in the music.

She had always played from the heart.

Her throat constricted. She had not realized quite how beautiful his eyes were, or how expressive. For such a gentle man, his naked feelings were fierce, melting her very bones. And that was before he even touched her.

When would he touch her?

His eyes devoured her, settled on her mouth, and butterflies cascaded through her stomach. She could not breathe for the thrill of hunger, of need. She did not even know if it was his or her own.

Why did he not speak?

Because his eyes said everything. The man had always communicated with his eyes, and she doubted many people ever noticed. She did, and it consumed her.

Very slowly, he lifted one hand and brushed his fingertips across her cheek, a soft, wandering caress. His parted lips quirked into a smile.

What would his kiss feel like? It would be sweet, so sweet, so… necessary .

His hand fell away. He took a step backward, turned, and strode out of the room.