Chapter Nine

S amuel sat back in his favourite chair, trying his best to relax. He'd arranged to have tea with all of his guests in the small parlour, and hoped that the cosy familiarity of the room would put Hope at ease when meeting Charles and Miss Gordon. She'd seemed anxious when he'd met her in the hallway to escort her down, and for the first time since arriving at Hayton she'd refused to let him assist her on the stairs.

‘I dread to think what your guests would say if they saw you carrying me,' she'd pointed out in a hushed tone. ‘Besides, I am feeling much stronger. I managed to go upstairs by myself last night, and I am sure I can manage to walk down them today if I use the walking cane.'

Samuel had acquiesced, but nonetheless he'd remained close by her side as she'd made her way, somewhat unsteadily, down each step. Several times he'd observed her grimace in discomfort, and he suspected her ankle was not as healed as she'd suggested. But she was right; he could no longer be permitted to lift her into his arms, not when there were others in the house. An unexpected wave of regret had gripped Samuel then. Regret that his visitors had turned up as planned, that his letter had not reached them. Regret that his time alone with his unexpected guest had passed. Immediately he'd chastised himself for it. Hope was living in his home under his protection, not so that he might, quite literally, sweep her off her feet. That was something he had absolutely no intention of doing, especially not when he was being so untruthful.

The introductions over, their group had settled into some pleasant, if a little stilted, conversation. To Samuel's surprise and relief, Charles appeared to have decided to be on his best behaviour, engaging Hope in only the gentlest of enquiries about her convalescence and whether she was enjoying her time at Hayton Hall, notwithstanding the circumstances.

‘This is the first time I have visited Sammy's home,' he said, looking all about him. ‘And I must say that I have never laid my eyes upon a finer country house than this.'

‘It is very lovely,' Hope agreed demurely.

Samuel, however, rolled his eyes. ‘I am sure I recall you saying the same about almost every house we visited on the Continent,' he replied. ‘And I am equally certain that Shawdale can compete with them all.'

Charles made a face. ‘Shawdale is very grand, but it is not a country house. It is on the edge of a town and is barely ten years old. It does not have the depth that Hayton has, or indeed that any old family seat has when it has stood long enough to store the centuries within its walls.'

‘You must forgive Mr Gordon,' Samuel said, turning to Hope. ‘He has an unhealthy preoccupation with having an ancient noble lineage and a castle to keep it all in. You'll have to marry a duke's daughter, Charles,' he added, addressing his friend once more. ‘Then you can ask your father-in-law if you can borrow one of his.'

Samuel was amused to see Hope splutter on her tea at that. She seemed to have relaxed a little now, and her laughter had made the colour rise in her cheeks, giving her a healthier glow. He found his gaze lingering upon her as he considered how well she looked in her cream day dress, her dark curls framing her face, her emerald eyes sparkling with merriment. Perhaps, he considered, their little group of four would not be such a bad thing, after all.

‘He mocks me, Miss Swynford, but I am going to build my own castle,' Charles continued.

Hope's eyebrows shot up. ‘Oh, like the Prince Regent? He builds castles for himself, does he not?'

Charles shook his head. ‘The Prince Regent builds mansions and palaces. I shall build a castle which William the Conqueror himself would be proud to live in.'

Samuel chuckled in disbelief. ‘You're going to build yourself a Norman castle?'

‘Another of my brother's wild schemes,' Miss Gordon interjected drily. Until now she'd sat quietly, so much so that Samuel had quite forgotten she was there. ‘When he inherits our father's fortune, he plans to knock down Shawdale and erect his monstrosity in its place.'

Samuel regarded his friend, aghast. ‘And what does your father say about that?'

‘He does not know.' Charles shrugged. ‘Nor shall he.'

‘You speak of legacies, Charles, yet you'd readily demolish what your father has built?' Samuel shook his head, unable to fathom it. ‘And what about your mother? Or your sister?' he added, inclining his head towards Miss Gordon.

‘Oh, I care not,' Miss Gordon said. ‘When our father is gone, Charles can do as he likes, and so shall I.' She gave a self-satisfied smile then turned to Hope. ‘I presume you had parents at one time, Miss Swynford?' she asked.

Samuel watched as Hope met his eye cautiously before answering, ‘Yes, of course.'

‘And have you committed yourself entirely to guarding their legacy?'

Hope sipped her tea, and Samuel saw that she was considering her answer. In truth, he was intrigued as to what it might be. In their time together, she'd said so little about herself, about her history. He knew nothing about where she'd come from, in terms of either location or heritage. He wondered now if Miss Gordon's rather abrupt questioning might yield more information than he'd thus far managed to gather.

At length, Hope shook her head. ‘I confess I'm not sure I've ever thought much about it.'

‘Well, what did they bequeath to you?' Miss Gordon put up her hand. ‘And, before you think me impudent, I am not speaking of money. What I mean to say is, do you have happy memories of them to treasure, or would you too be happy to tear down the ancestral home?'

‘Sister...'

Charles spoke gently, but the warning contained within his voice was all too clear. Samuel found himself wondering what on earth was going on, how a convivial conversation about Norman castles could have taken such a dark turn. Still, though, he was curious as to how Hope would answer. If she would answer.

He watched as Hope looked up, meeting Miss Gordon's gaze squarely. ‘I dare say that, like many people, I can confess to cherishing some memories, while wishing to cast away others like stones.'

‘And the ancestral home?' Miss Gordon pressed.

Hope gave a grim smile. ‘It can remain standing, but I shall never set foot in it again.'

‘I am sorry to hear that,' Samuel interjected quietly, glancing around him. ‘I feel fortunate that I can look upon my family's home with such fondness.'

‘Ah, and that is why Hayton is such a haven,' Miss Gordon answered, her tone lighter now. ‘The perfect place to convalesce, I am sure. Well, except for Buxton. Its waters always do me the world of good, don't they, Charles?'

Charles might have answered but, in truth, Samuel was no longer listening. Instead, he found himself mulling over what Hope had said, trying to discern its meaning. He'd wished to know more about her, but what Miss Gordon's enquiries had revealed had only provoked more questions in his mind. What were the memories she wished to cast away? Why would she never return to her ancestral home? Did any of this have anything to do with the uncle from whom she was currently hiding?

Miss Gordon had spoken of guarding legacies. Well, Samuel thought, Hope was guarding something about her past, he felt sure of it. Something, he suspected, that was painful. Something she'd much rather forget.

Hope wasn't sure if she felt better or worse after her first meeting with the Gordons. Mr Gordon had seemed pleasant and good-natured enough, and she'd enjoyed the affectionate teasing which was clearly central to his and Samuel's friendship. Miss Gordon, however, was a different matter entirely. Frankly, the lady unnerved her, bestowing those dark eyes upon her as though she was peering into her soul, and asking questions in a way which seemed to suck the life out of the room.

Her behaviour had already caused consternation among the servants too. When Maddie had finally arrived in Hope's bedchamber that morning, she'd been flustered, explaining that it had taken several of the female servants to rouse Miss Gordon, such was the depth of her slumber.

‘When, finally, she awoke, I thought she was unwell,' Maddie went on. ‘She seemed weak and listless, and her eyes kept rolling back as though she was struggling to remain awake. I was ready to send for the physician, but she insisted nothing was amiss and ordered me to help her dress. Rather curtly, I might add.'

Hope had thought little of it at the time, reasoning that Miss Gordon was likely exhausted after her long journey to Hayton. Now, having met her, and having noted the sharp edge to her questions and the brittle way she spoke of family and legacies, Hope realised she would need to be on her guard. There'd been some pain and turmoil in that near-black stare, she felt sure of it. There'd been a story, barely concealed and threatening to spill forth, driving a tendency to want to unravel the stories of others. Hope knew her sort; the theatre had been packed with just such haunted individuals, taking to the stage to escape themselves. Hope wondered now what Miss Gordon's escape was, and whether it had anything to do with her difficulty in waking that morning. That was something she'd witnessed before too.

After tea, they took a walk in the beautiful gardens which sprawled to the rear of Hayton Hall. To begin with, Hope had hesitated about joining the group on their afternoon promenade. The walls of Hayton Hall, she realised, had become a fortress for her. Inside, she felt hidden away, protected from those who might be roaming the countryside, looking for her. The garden, by contrast, felt dangerous and exposed. Instinctively, Samuel had seemed to understand this.

‘I can ask Madeleine to fetch your book and some more tea to the parlour, if you'd prefer to stay here,' he'd suggested. ‘Although the gardens are very secluded, and we will not venture far from the house.'

Hope had felt the eyes of the other two guests upon her as she'd considered her options. Her gaze had wandered towards the window where, outside, a bright autumn day awaited. She did so long to feel the warmth of the sun on her face again. Surely, she reasoned, the risk of briefly venturing into private gardens, tucked between a large house and sprawling woodland, was not so great.

‘I will come,' she'd said in the end. ‘The fresh air will do me good. Although I'm afraid that my ankle means that my pace will be painfully slow.'

‘There is nothing painful about a gentle promenade,' Samuel had replied, offering her a reassuring smile. ‘I find it allows plenty of time for quiet reflection or, if in company, some delightful conversation.'

Equipped with the walking cane and a wide-brimmed bonnet sufficient to shield her face, Hope limped along the orderly paths which wove their way through beds thick with plants and bushes. She clutched Samuel's arm tightly, partly for support and partly, she realised, for reassurance. He had not left her side since they'd walked out of Hayton's rear door, nor had he spoken much, apparently preferring companionable silence to conversation.

Hope told herself that she ought to be relieved; she was still reeling from Miss Gordon's questions in the parlour. Though her answers had been suitably vague, they had also contained much truth about herself—her real self. In light of that, the chance to keep her own counsel for once should have been welcome, yet instead Hope found herself wishing that Samuel would engage her on some topic, however ordinary. Wishing too to rekindle something of those short few days they'd spent together, prior to the Gordons' arrival.

‘Is everything all right?' she ventured to ask in the end, finding herself unable to tolerate the silence any longer.

He gave her a bemused look. ‘Of course, why would it not be?'

‘You seem unusually quiet, that is all. I thought perhaps something was amiss.'

‘I was just thinking about the last time I walked in these gardens.' He smiled at her. ‘About hearing a scream coming from the woods. About finding you.'

She nodded. ‘I am glad you did. Who knows what would have become of me?'

‘I am glad that I did too.' He regarded her thoughtfully. ‘You have made a remarkable recovery in...how long has it been? A little over a week?'

Hope drew a deep breath. ‘It's odd—it feels as though I have been at Hayton Hall much longer than that. I agree, though, I am feeling much better. I have you to thank for that, sir.'

‘Just Samuel,' he reminded her.

‘I have you to thank, Just Samuel,' she retorted with a grin.

He chuckled at that. ‘I dare say it's actually Madeleine you should thank. She has cared for you, after all.'

Hope inclined her head in agreement. ‘It's Maddie,' she corrected him. ‘She prefers to be called Maddie.'

He glanced at her again, a frown gathering between his eyes. ‘Er...yes, you're right, I do recall her once suggesting that I call her Maddie.'

‘Then why do you insist upon calling her Madeleine?'

‘I do not know... I suppose because that is her proper name.'

‘Well, it vexes her, Samuel. For whatever reason, she does not care for her proper name. Just as you do not care for being called Sammy by your friend,' she observed.

He gave her a quizzical look. ‘How do you know that?'

‘Because you flinch every time Mr Gordon says it,' she replied. ‘However, Mr Gordon is your friend and your equal; if you really wanted to, you could insist that he call you Samuel. But Maddie is your servant—she can hardly challenge you over what you call her.'

Samuel cleared his throat, his countenance shifting into something less jovial, less comfortable. Hope saw that her words had struck a chord. ‘Yes, quite,' he replied. ‘I did not realise that it bothered her. But you are right, of course.'

She raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Yes, I am right. Perhaps I shall begin to call you Sammy too. Perhaps I will do so until you start calling her Maddie.'

‘All right, all right,' he said, a smile breaking on his face as he glanced at her. ‘You are very direct—do you know that? Very plain-speaking.'

Hope felt her heart begin to thrum faster at his observation, conscious that she'd allowed her true self to be glimpsed once again. ‘Miss Gordon seems to speak her mind too,' she retorted, nodding her head towards the siblings, who were now some distance away.

‘Miss Gordon speaks in riddles,' Samuel replied, shaking his head. ‘Quite what her conversation in the parlour was about, I cannot fathom. She even had Charles looking uncomfortable, and nothing usually ruffles his feathers.'

‘I dare say all is not well at Shawdale,' Hope observed. ‘Perhaps that is what lies beneath their stay in Buxton, and their visit to you.'

‘I think you may be right about that.' Samuel regarded her carefully, his grey-blue eyes holding her own. ‘It occurs to me now that when we were on the Continent, Charles never seemed inclined to return home, and he never said much about his family. Indeed, until he wrote to me to accept my invitation to visit, I did not even know he had a sister.'

‘That is odd,' Hope mused. ‘Although I suppose people have their reasons for not wishing to discuss their families.'

‘Like you, you mean.'

Hope realised they'd stopped walking, standing instead in the middle of the path. When had that happened? She felt suddenly and acutely aware of her arm still resting in his, of his proximity, of his eyes fixed on hers. Of the weight of meaning in his observation. Of all that separated them, of the chasm wrought by his wealth and status. Of everything he did not know about her, and everything he could never know.

‘Yes, like me,' she said quietly, looking away.

If she had expected an inquisition, it did not come. Instead, Samuel reached over, placing his free hand over hers, which remained in the crook of his elbow.

‘Whenever you wish to talk about it, I am ready to listen,' he said.

The gesture was so tender that she could not bring herself to meet his eye. Instead, she simply nodded, not quite trusting herself to answer. Not quite trusting herself not to blurt out her story, and lay the unpalatable facts of her life at his feet.