Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

There was nothing worse than being a guest in one's home. Jemma loved her time at the Manning House with her aunt, uncle, and cousin, but after all these months, she still felt like it was another summer visit. No one expected anything of her, but she lacked other freedoms she had grown used to before her grandmother had died.

Mrs. Manning, sweet and well intentioned, coddled her. Lisette followed her lead. Mr. Manning touched on the lightest of subjects, careful not to mention any suffering or loss and quick to overapologize if he did. There was nothing natural about any of it. And so it was because Jemma loved them so much that she wanted to marry and leave them—to give them back their home and their lives without her stuck in the center of them.

Grandmother had known it would be this way, while Jemma had had to learn it for herself. Such knowledge might have solidified her motivation to marry Mr. Bentley, but it did not make the long days pass any faster. And she still had six more weeks to endure. Thankfully, she had an escape every day with her reading and long walks.

Today would be even better, too, because she had a destination for her walk in mind—the next step in her new life plan—her lessons on love. So at the noon hour, Jemma set out walking to the church in search of a certain vicar. Miles had been a constant in her life, much like the Mannings, but because he was not a relation, nor was he driving her half mad from his hovering presence, she needed him more than ever.

And she knew exactly where to find him. Not many were aware, but Miles was a creature of habit. Taking the narrow, winding path behind the church, she weaved through the trees in search of him. He always took his midday meal outside when the weather permitted, having a great love and reverence for nature.

The trail ended at a little stream. Years ago, someone had placed a simple backless wooden bench on the bank that overlooked the blue-green creek and the mossy hill behind it. Most days, a trickle of water chased down the hill in thick, majestic tears streaming into heavy rivulets. But after a good rain, it turned into a small but beautiful waterfall. She spotted Miles on the bench, his legs extended in front of him and a sandwich in his hand.

" Mr. Jackson ." She made her voice boom, making Miles jump in his seat and drop his sandwich.

She smothered her giggle with her hand. "Sorry, it's just me."

He gave her a sheepish shake of his head and reached for his sandwich, now covered in dirt. "For what reason do I owe the honor of your presence in this humble corner of nature today, Miss Fielding ?"

"I had to thank you. You know, for the way you handled the horrific turn of events Monday afternoon at the Manning House. I should never have asked you—or any man—to assess the damage of my dress."

"It was mortifying," Miles said plainly. "I may never sleep again."

She smothered another laugh and approached the far end of the bench. "Good, then it wasn't so very bad after all. I am quite relieved."

Miles smirked. "If it had been anyone else, Jemma ..."

"I know, I know. My reputation. I feel terrible about it. Honestly, I do. Thank you for coming to my rescue. For ... everything."

Miles gave a slow nod, breaking a piece of bread from his sandwich and throwing it into the creek. "How did you know to find me here anyway?"

"You always come here this time of day."

His hands stilled before he could throw another crumb of bread. "How did you know?"

"The same way I know that when you are finished eating, you'll dust off your hands and take out your little black book, where you write down any inspiration that comes."

"You mean my prayer book."

"No, I mean your little journal." She'd asked him two summers ago about his writing, but he'd always brushed it aside. She'd respected his privacy since then, but she had burned with curiosity to know what sort of things he recorded. "One of these days, I plan to peek over your shoulder when you aren't looking and get a glimpse of it. Someone should know what you've been scrawling away at all these years."

Miles tipped his head back a little and looked down his nose at her. "I believe you take pleasure in spying on me."

"Observing is the correct word. It's what friends naturally do after a decade or more in each other's company. Speaking of your journal and this tucked-away bench, I'm not certain why you try to hide everything from the others. Secrets in Brookeside are few and far between."

"For you, at least." Miles shifted to one side of the bench and motioned for her to sit beside him.

"My secret wasn't meant to be kept for long." She took the seat, smoothing her skirts in front of her. "What about your secrets?"

"I don't have anything to conceal." He shifted and looked away.

She narrowed her gaze. "You act terribly suspicious for someone who isn't hiding something. Do you have a real secret? I mean, besides being a dedicated journal writer?"

"No, no secret." He attempted to scratch his neck, but his cravat prevented it.

"Miles Jackson! You might fool someone else with your Rebel acting but not me." She laughed and shook her head. "At least I know I'm not the only one keeping something from our friends."

Miles speared her with a glare. "Why are you here again? And where is your chaperone? You're growing careless. I know the Rebels aren't strict with this sort of thing when we are together, but our reputations can serve us well. You must try to protect yours better."

She ignored his concern. "You evaded my question, but I will let it lie for now. And I couldn't bring a chaperone, as today is our first lesson."

"A shame you came all this way," Miles said. "I happen to have a meeting with someone."

"Indeed you do. Me."

"I meant a different meeting." Miles lifted one eyebrow. He could raise it dramatically high into a triangular arch, a skill she had never acquired. After all these years, the ridiculous expression still made her smile.

"I checked your calendar on your desk before coming to find you. I penciled my name in for this hour ... and for next Monday and Wednesday at the same time."

His shoulders shook in a silent laugh, and he rid himself of the rest of his sandwich, the last of it floating down the stream. "You are tenacious, Jemma Fielding, to say the least."

"I have to be. How else will I learn a thing about falling in love? I can barely wrap my head around courtship as it is."

"The last time I gave you lessons, I taught you how to play chess. Do you remember?"

"I beat you in the first game." She grinned. "I was a natural."

Miles smirked. "Exactly. You're a natural in company too. You act like you have never spoken to a man before, but you certainly don't need me or any silly lessons."

"But I do need you." She swiveled so her entire upper body faced him. "Miles, I have flirted before and danced plenty, but this is love we are speaking of. It's big, grand, and incomprehensible. My parents didn't raise me. I had no one demonstrating to me how it is done. Most of the year, it was simply Grandmother and me. I know I have my aunt and uncle and all those happily married in Brookeside to look up to, but I feel at such a disadvantage. How do I create such an emotion in another person? How do I create it in myself? I have spent too many years focusing on the inconvenience of the idea. I must change the way I see it."

Miles sighed. He was looking at her like she was a lost puppy. "Have you tried poetry?"

She folded her arms. "Poetry is wonderful, but it is mostly about after one is in love, not the process. Miles, you will have to humble yourself and start teaching me. In fact, we should start this very minute. I don't plan to waste my afternoon." She tapped her fingers on her arm in an exaggerated motion.

He stared at her for a long moment, but she wouldn't break. The matter was settled. Miles had to be the one to teach her.

He groaned and lifted his hands in the air. "Very well. If I don't give in, you'll start threatening blackmail again."

"I will indeed."

"Where's the mercy in your voice? Sadly, I know you too well to question your sincerity."

She had to bite back her smile. Likely, no one knew her better than he did. Not long after his father died, she'd come to Miles as a young, curious girl and asked him if he believed in heaven. She'd wanted to know about her own parents and wondered if Grandmother was telling her stories about a made-up world just to make her feel better.

Miles hadn't teased her for her silly question, but had patiently explained his view on the afterlife. Jemma had returned with another question and then another and had done the same the following summer when she had visited Brookeside, sometimes saving up her thoughts for months at a time, waiting to tell them to Miles. She couldn't remember many of their conversations now, but somewhere along the line, she'd made him her confidant.

"I can see your smile." He glared. "Do you take great pleasure in making me suffer?"

"This is what friends do for each other."

Miles would give in in the end. He was the kind of person who didn't condemn her for her wild ideas—some of which were not practical for a woman in a man's world. Miles didn't always agree with her, but he listened and offered sound judgment. And more, he was quick to offer his help.

So why was he stalling now? And why was her threat of blackmail so unnerving to him? The idea of Miles and Lisette was ages old, starting when Miles had rescued Lisette from an ice-skating incident at the upper pond.

Everyone had seen shy Lisette bestow a kiss on the surprised Miles's cheek. From that day on, there had been a subtle circle drawn around the two of them. At first, Jemma had thought it nothing, but after mistaking Lisette's journal for her own, Jemma had accidentally discovered her cousin's deep-seated love for Miles. From then, Jemma, too, could see the line connecting them.

As for Miles's devotion, she could see it in simple ways. He'd chastised Mortimer Gibb when he'd teased Lisette, dropped off books for her when she'd caught a persistent cold, and had requested Lisette's first dance at her very first ball. There had been other times as well. Dozens of them.

The day the ice had broken at the upper pond all those years ago, the universe had shifted. Jemma and the rest of Brookeside had known from that moment, Miles and Lisette were meant for each other. The uncomfortable memory had never sat well with Jemma. She thought herself an educated woman who read from the same material as the Oxford men, but she knew nothing of fated hearts and why that moment had left hers untouched and alone.

"Jemma?"

"Hmm?" She looked up at Miles and blinked.

"I said, let's get this over with. I thought you were dying to have this lesson, but apparently, you were woolgathering."

She unfolded her arms and shifted toward him. "I'm all ears."

A mixture of disbelief and distrust lined his features. "Yes, well, move to the very end of the bench."

"What?"

"I don't want you getting the wrong idea while we are here alone together."

She clamped down her laugh and shifted over a few inches. "Better?"

"It will have to suffice. Now, where is your paper? You should write down what I say. It might be more profound than any of my sermons, and I will not be tasked to do it twice."

"I will write the words across my heart, never to be forgotten," she quipped.

His forehead creased. "If only you would." He stood suddenly and walked a few steps toward the creek. He rubbed his hand over his dark brows, clearly contemplating what to begin with. "I won't tell you how to bat your eyelashes or when to simper or tease. If you are looking for lessons in flirtation, you will be quite sorry. I intend to cover subjects of substance."

"But it will help me capture Mr. Bentley's heart?"

"That will be entirely up to your application of the lessons." He peered over his shoulder as if expecting her to argue. When she didn't, his gaze softened and he said, "Well then, let's start with the art of conversation."

Jemma grinned, ready to show how eager she was. "Yes, let's start there. This happens to be my greatest strength."

"Is it?" Miles put his hand on his hip, pushing his jacket back and emphasizing his well-tailored waistcoat that had seen better days.

She frowned at it, and not because Miles did not look well in it but because his question confounded her. "I thought it was."

"Conversation isn't just about asking the right questions and being informed on a variety of interesting subjects."

"What else is there?"

Miles covered his laugh with a cough into his hand. " Listening , Jemma. A conversation is an exchange of sharing and listening—an intensely personal dance between two humans who draw past the inhibitions to the heart."

"I listen plenty," Jemma defended. "You don't think I am good at conversation? I am offended."

He clasped his hands behind his back and grinned. "I never said you did not excel at it." He paused and raised a brow once again. "You must not have been listening."

Her scowl deepened, and she retraced the conversation in her head. "Yes, but you implied it."

He shrugged. "Misunderstandings are easy, are they not? They can make a wedge between a couple and prevent love from blossoming or even kill it completely. I've seen it too many times amongst our neighbors, I am sorry to say."

"Not here in Brookeside," Jemma argued. "I know my experience is limited to the summers, but everyone loves everyone here."

He shook his head, his face a little grim. "I wish it were so."

She tilted her head, noticing for the first time an invisible weight on his shoulders. "You really care about the people here, don't you?"

"I know many men in my position do not even claim to be especially religious. Many of them weren't the prized firstborn son with a grand inheritance, and the church was an easy source of income. But it's more than a job to me. It's ..."

"A calling?" she offered.

He shrugged. "Maybe."

A smile tugged at her lips. "How am I doing with the listening?"

His lips quirked like he was fighting his own smile. "You always were good at conversation."

Jemma snorted, and they both laughed. Miles collapsed onto the bench next to her, much closer than before. His eyes met hers, and his smile suddenly faded. "Well, that ought to keep you until Monday. You were an exemplary student."

She bumped him with her shoulder. "We cannot be done yet. I am certain your parish appreciates a brief sermon, but not me. I'm already seeing conversation in a different light. Tell me what's next."

"Conversation is the first step. Once you get to know ..." Miles cleared his throat. "Once you get to know Mr. Bentley and listen to what his interests are, you can follow it with an act of kindness."

"I like that."

"Good. How about practicing on someone else first?"

"Like you?"

He shook his head much too quickly. "Not me, please. Think of someone you don't understand. The first person who comes to mind."

"The new maid at the Manning House. She walks around with this matted shawl at all hours of the day. I declare, it is swarming with fleas, besides being much too warm for this time of year. I would love an excuse to design a new one for her and have it made up in a practical fabric with an attractive pattern. I have already noted several options in my mind." She mused, quirking a brow. "Maybe the art of conversation will aid my cause."

"Perfect. Get her to talk about herself. Then, based on your conversation, think of something nice to do for her. When you serve someone, you start to think differently about them. It's an amazing thing." His eyes were lit when he finished. His passion for his profession always inspired her.

"Is this the sort of activity you engage in every day?"

He shrugged. "When I can. But this isn't about me. It's about Mr. Bentley." He punctuated each sound of the name.

"You are very right. I shall attempt to apply what I have learned tomorrow night at dinner. You are coming, are you not?"

"To Kensington House?"

"Have you forgotten? I heard Lady Kellen convinced Ian to come. You really ought to join us."

"Yes, I suppose I must."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic."

"I won't, then." He stood and gave a dismissive nod with his head in the direction of the church. "Don't let anyone see you. Someone has to worry about your reputation, even if you do not."

She pushed off the bench and agreed. "Good day to you, Miles." She went a few steps from him before turning abruptly. "I will repay you someday for all your help. You won't regret it."

He said nothing, turning to stare at the creek instead of her. She took one last look at the profile half of Brookeside was in love with. His dark curls hid the top of his ears, and a long lock fell across his forehead. And while his chiseled features were decidedly masculine, he had thicker eyelashes than any woman she knew. She forced her eyes away, as she had trained herself long ago to do. Mr. Bentley might not be as handsome as Miles, but she sincerely hoped she would come to rely on him in a similar way.