Chapter 3

Chapter Three

A white mist hung low to the ground as Winston charged his horse forward, savoring the solitude of the early morning. The stillness wrapped around him like a comforting shroud, and he relished the reprieve from his burdensome life. At this hour, he was alone, free from the chatter and expectations of others, which was a rare and precious gift.

Yet, a familiar feeling of guilt gnawed at him. Despite having everything he had ever wanted, he felt weighed down by expectations and fears. What if he never made something of himself? What if he forever lived in the shadow of his father, or worse, his brother?

His father was a marquess and Bennett was the golden child, the heir. Winston was merely the spare, the one who had to leave home and find a profession that suited him. And he had done just that. He had become a barrister and found great satisfaction in his work—until that one blasted case.

The memory of Johnny haunted him. The boy, no older than ten, had stood in front of the platform where his mother had been hanged. Her crime had been thievery, but she hadn’t deserved to die. And yet, Winston’s actions had led to her execution. He could still see Johnny’s tear-streaked face, the raw pain in his eyes.

Winston slowed his horse to a trot, the mist swirling around them. He could no longer escape the reality of his choices or the consequences that followed.

He had thought becoming a barrister would bring him purpose and fulfillment, but that case had shattered his illusions. Now, he was left grappling with guilt and a profound sense of inadequacy. How could he ever hope to live up to his own high expectations when his conscience was so heavily burdened?

As he led his horse into the woodlands, Winston wanted to rediscover the happiness that he once felt, though he doubted it was truly possible. The notion that he even deserved happiness was questionable. He had taken Johnny’s mother from him, leaving him alone. How could he ever reconcile that fact?

Ahead, the steady murmur of the stream reached his ears before he saw it. The sound was comforting, and this was his sanctuary, his place for a moment of peace. But as he turned the corner, he realized he wasn’t alone.

Miss Bawden.

What in the blazes was she doing here? This was his place of solitude, not hers. Besides, it was his family’s land, and she was trespassing.

Winston reined in his horse, the sound of hooves muffled by the soft ground. He dismounted quietly, not wanting to startle her, but his presence had already been noticed.

Miss Bawden looked up from her seat on a large rock, surprise flickering in her eyes. “Lord Winston,” she acknowledged, her tone more civil than he was expecting. “I didn’t expect to see anyone here, at least not at this early morning hour.”

“This is my father’s land,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. He didn’t want Miss Bawden here anymore than he wanted to contend with a wild boar. Both were ornery and left a stink in the air.

She stood, brushing off her skirts. “I apologize, but I needed a place to think. Edwina showed me this place once.”

Winston sighed at the mention of his cousin. “Yes, well, Edwina is no longer residing here, and you are trespassing.”

Miss Bawden seemed unconcerned by his remarks nor was she making any attempt to leave. “It is such a peaceful spot. It almost feels… untouched.”

For a moment, they stood in silence, the stream’s gentle babble being the only sound between them. Winston felt a pang of empathy. He had come here to escape his own demons, and it seemed Miss Bawden was running from her own grief as well.

“Is everything all right?” he asked, the question surprising even himself. Why had he asked such a thing? He wanted her to leave, not stay and participate in idle chit-chat.

Miss Bawden hesitated, then shook her head. “No, not really. However, it is not something you need to concern yourself with.”

“Perhaps I can help,” he offered, surprising himself again. “Sometimes talking to someone, especially someone who is not involved, can make things clearer.”

She regarded him cautiously, as if weighing his sincerity. Finally, she revealed, “It is my cousin, Franny. She lost both of her parents, and I don’t know how to help her.”

Winston nodded, understanding more than she knew. “When my uncle died, I took it rather hard. He had been a man that I had always looked up to, and secretly aspired to be like,” he shared. “My only advice is that sometimes just being there is enough. Offering support, even when you feel helpless, can mean the world to someone in pain.”

Miss Bawden’s eyes softened. “Thank you, my lord. I just wish I could do more than be there.”

He cocked his head, considering her words. “ When your mother died, what helped you the most to navigate through the grief?”

“Time,” Miss Bawden replied. “I still miss my mother every day, but it gets a little easier with time. Well, time and friends that baked us food. Loads of food. We couldn’t even eat everything that had been provided to us.”

“Then perhaps you should bake your cousin something,” Winston suggested.

Miss Bawden made a face. “I like my cousin. I wouldn’t wish to make her sadder by eating my cooking.”

Winston chuckled. “I take it that Mrs. Watson still doesn’t let you cook.”

“No, she insists I stay far, far away when she prepares our meals,” Miss Bawden said. “However, she has recently let me start boiling the water again.”

“That seems like an easy enough task.”

Miss Bawden grinned. “You would think, but one time I was reading, and the water spilled over, extinguishing the flame.”

“I see how that could be a problem.”

“So now I am not allowed to read while watching the water boil,” Miss Bawden said. “Have you ever watched water boil?”

Winston shook his head. “I have not.”

“It is not the least bit enjoyable,” Miss Bawden said.

Winston found himself smiling. “It seems cooking is not your forte. Perhaps you can find another way to support your cousin.”

Her grin faded slightly, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “I just want to help her feel less alone.”

Hearing the sadness in Miss Bawden’s voice made him wonder if she was speaking only about her cousin. “Do you feel alone?” he prodded.

Miss Bawden ducked her head. “I do, at times,” she admitted. “My father is busy being the vicar, my sister is at boarding school, and I am a spinster.”

“You are hardly a spinster.”

“I am one and twenty years old,” Miss Bawden replied. “And I haven’t even had a Season yet.”

Winston led his horse to the stream to drink. “I thought my mother was hosting you for the upcoming Season.”

Miss Bawden winced. “I haven’t yet found the courage to ask my father about that,” she admitted. “I do not think he will be pleased.”

“Whyever not?”

“My father needs me at home,” Miss Bawden said.

Winston lifted his brow. “I daresay that was before he became a viscount and heir to an earldom. He will now have a team of people around him, ensuring the estate is thriving, as well as a household staff.”

Miss Bawden lowered her gaze. “I suppose you are right, but I still feel responsible. I have always managed the house on my own. It is hard to let go of that.”

“Change is never easy, but your father will understand,” Winston said. “Do you not think he would want you to find your own path and happiness?”

She brought her gaze up. “You are right. He would,” she replied. “Thank you. Your words mean more than you know.”

Winston nodded. “Be careful, Miss Bawden,” he urged. “If we continue on as we have been, we might even become friends one day.”

“That would take a miracle,” Miss Bawden responded, softening her words with a smile. “Besides, it will just take one game of pall-mall before we are at odds once more.”

Reaching up, Winston rubbed the shoulder which had been hit by a mallet Miss Bawden had once thrown at him during an intense game of pall-mall. “You make a valid point,” he said.

They fell into another comfortable silence, the shared moment of vulnerability bridging the gap between them.

Botheration.

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. There would be no good that came out of them becoming friends since they had been at odds with one another for so long. It was familiar. Comfortable. And he didn’t want to let Miss Bawden in, knowing she had a propensity for making his life miserable.

Yet, the unexpected connection they had just shared gnawed at him. He had always found solace in their bickering, a predictable routine that required no emotional investment. But now, seeing her vulnerable, struggling with her own burdens, complicated things. He didn’t need this kind of complexity in his life.

“Miss Bawden,” he began, his voice harsher than he intended, “I think it is best if we?—”

“Yes, my lord?” she interrupted, looking at him with a curious, almost hopeful expression.

Winston’s resolve wavered. He could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the fragility she rarely let show. He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to continue. “It is best if we maintain our… usual distance. We each have our roles to play, and it is much simpler that way.”

She blinked, the hope in her eyes dimming. “Of course,” she replied. “I do think that would be easier… for both of us.”

He nodded curtly, feeling a twinge of guilt. It was better this way, he told himself. Better to stick to what they knew, to avoid entanglements that could lead to further complications, such as another kiss.

His back grew rigid at that thought. No, he wouldn’t kiss Miss Bawden ever again. It had just been a moment of weakness, a lapse in judgment. He had always wondered what it would be like to kiss Miss Bawden, imagining it as a way to dispel the strange tension between them .

He had half-hoped that it would be dull, but instead, it had sparked a desire for more. He would not—could not—give in to that temptation once more.

“Take care, Miss Bawden,” he said, turning to leave.

“And you, my lord,” she replied.

He stopped himself and turned back around. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you would like,” he said. “It is a place for peace, after all.”

Miss Bawden smiled faintly. “Thank you. That is very kind of you.”

As he mounted his horse and rode away, Winston couldn’t help but feel that he had just made a mistake. But why would he want to be friends with Miss Bawden? No good would come from that. Of that, he was sure. Yet, a nagging doubt gnawed at him as he rode through the misty woodlands. Perhaps he had been too hasty.

Mattie took a shortcut through the woodlands. As she approached her family’s cottage, the faint smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the air, a comforting scent of home. This was her sanctuary, the place she had always known, and soon she would be leaving it so her father could assume his new title.

She understood the reasoning behind the move—duty, family legacy, the responsibilities that came with their newfound status. But understanding didn’t equate to liking it. She would be leaving behind her friends, including the Lockwood family, who had always shown her genuine kindness. Well, except for Lord Winston. He had always managed to aggravate her to no end with his insufferable arrogance.

Yet, despite his cocky exterior, Mattie had caught glimpses of the man behind the mask he wore. There were moments when his guard slipped, revealing a depth and vulnerability that intrigued her. She often wondered what drove him to maintain such a facade. What was he hiding from? What burdens did he carry that necessitated such a mask?

As she pondered these questions, she knew one thing for certain: despite the changes ahead, she would miss the familiarity of her life here, and perhaps even the sparring matches with Lord Winston.

The door of the cottage flew open and her father stepped out onto the covered porch, frustration etched in his face. “Where have you been, young lady?” he demanded.

Young lady?

Her father only used that term when he was truly upset with her.

Mattie came to a stop in front of him. “I was just taking a walk through the woodlands,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

Tossing up his hands in exasperation, her father replied, “No, everything is not all right. Franny is crying… again.”

“That is not unexpected,” Mattie said gently, “considering she just lost her parents.”

“I know, but she was crying into her bread,” her father replied, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I don’t know what to do to help her. She is inconsolable.”

Mattie placed a comforting hand on his sleeve, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Shall I join you for breakfast? Perhaps together we can manage to coax a smile out of Franny.”

Her father’s eyes were sad. “I spent many years as a vicar consoling others, drawing upon my own experience after losing your mother. But I was not prepared for the loss of my brother,” he admitted, his voice breaking slightly.

“We will get through this,” Mattie encouraged. “One step at a time. Let us start with breakfast and see if we can bring a little bit of comfort to Franny. ”

Her father nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. “Thank you, Mattie. I do not know how I would manage if you weren’t here.”

“You would do just fine,” she assured him.

“No, you are special, Child,” her father said. “Mother would be very proud of the young woman that you have become. I know that I am.”

Mattie was touched by her father’s words and blinked back the tears that were threatening to form. “Thank you, Father,” she responded. “Come. Let us go to the kitchen and eat our breakfast.”

Together, they walked into the cottage and headed towards the kitchen in the rear. Mattie’s heart sank when she saw Franny hunched over in a chair, tears streaming down her face.

In a soft voice, Mattie said, “Good morning, Franny.”

Franny gave her the briefest of glances before her gaze dropped back to the table.

Mattie wasn’t about to give up. Not yet. She sat down next to Franny and asked, “Have you eaten breakfast?”

Franny shook her head silently.

Mrs. Watson stepped closer and handed Mattie a plate of food. Mattie placed it gently in front of her cousin. “You need to eat and keep your strength up,” she encouraged.

In a barely audible voice, Franny asked, “What is the point? My parents are dead, and they are never coming back.”

Mattie’s heart lurched at the raw pain in her cousin’s voice. “You may think that your life is over, but it is not. You will have to discover a new normal.”

Franny sobbed into a white handkerchief. “I am all alone now,” she declared.

“You are not alone. You have us,” Mattie assured her. The fact that Franny was speaking proved that they were making some progress. Healing this wound would take some time.

“I want to go home,” Franny said, her voice breaking.

Her father stepped closer, his voice gentle yet firm. “In due time. Once a new vicar is brought on, we can depart for Darlington Abbey. Until then, let us grieve together without household staff being underfoot.”

Franny lifted her tear-stained cheeks, her expression one of pure anguish. “What is the point?” she asked. “I will never stop grieving.”

“Give it time…” her father began.

Jumping up from her seat, Franny shouted, “No! My parents left me behind. I was supposed to go on that trip to India, but they felt it was best if I stayed behind. I should have died right alongside them.”

Mattie went to place a hand on her sleeve, but Franny yanked back her arm. “I want to go home! I don’t want to live in this dilapidated cottage!” she shouted. “I want my bed, my friends and my old life back.”

With a hand covering her mouth, Franny ran from the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of a door slamming echoed through the cottage.

Her father’s eyes remained fixed on the empty doorway. “Poor Franny. She is taking this rather hard.”

Mattie accepted a plate of food from Mrs. Watson. “We must give her the space she needs.”

“Do you truly believe that will make a difference?” her father asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

She sighed. “It is not just space she needs. She needs time, understanding and the reassurance that she’s not alone. We can’t replace what she has lost, but we can help her find her way back to some semblance of normalcy.”

Her father nodded slowly. “You are right,” he said. “Perhaps you would like to give my next sermon.”

“Do you still intend to work as a vicar?”

“Yes, but only until they find my replacement,” her father replied. “I must admit that I am getting a little tired of people calling me ‘my lord,’ and it has only been a day since I have heard the news.”

Mattie smiled. “You have a lifetime to get used to that.”

“Do not remind me,” her father said, sitting down next to her. “How are you faring with everything?”

Her smile dimmed. “I am doing the best that I can,” she said. “I called upon Lady Dallington yesterday and that truly lifted my spirits.”

“I think very highly of Lady Dallington. She was the first to offer condolences when your mother passed away,” her father revealed, his eyes growing reflective. “They were in Town, visiting the late Lord Dallington, and she even ordered the cook to bring us food for weeks.”

Mattie picked up her fork and knife and took a bite of her breakfast, the familiar taste bringing a small measure of comfort. “Lady Dallington has offered to host me for the Season,” she shared.

Her father stared back at her. “This upcoming Season?”

“Yes, the upcoming Season.”

He frowned deeply. “Absolutely not! We are in mourning,” he declared. “It would be unacceptable for you to participate in such frivolous social events.”

Mattie pushed the food around her plate with her fork. “I am one and twenty years old and I have never had a Season.”

“That is because we couldn’t afford one,” her father said.

“I know, but our circumstances are different,” Mattie pressed. “We haven’t discussed it yet but I am hoping I am in possession of a dowry now.”

Her father leaned forward in his seat. “Yes, you have a dowry of fifteen thousand pounds, as does your sister, and Franny.”

Mattie’s heart took flight at that news. “Fifteen thousand pounds?” she repeated. “That is a fortune.”

“It is, but I am not ready for you to attend a Season,” her father insisted. “You are needed at home to care for Franny and your sister.”

“It is only for a few months, Father, and…”

Her father started rubbing his temples, a sure sign that he was growing upset. “I know, but I just worry about you. This transition has been difficult enough without the added pressure of societal expectations.”

“I will be careful,” she promised. “And I will return home whenever you need me. But please, do not discount Lady Dallington’s offer so quickly.”

He studied her face for a long moment before bobbing his head. “Very well. I will consider it, but that doesn’t mean I will agree to it. It just means I will give it additional thought.”

“Thank you, Father,” Mattie said.

“Do not thank me yet,” her father responded as he rose from his seat. “If you will excuse me, I have a meeting with Mr. Johnson soon about the state of my father’s estate.”

After her father departed from the kitchen, Mrs. Watson claimed the seat he had just vacated.

“I do hope your father will come around,” Mrs. Watson said. “You deserve to have a Season, especially after all the sacrifices that you have made for this family.”

Mattie shrugged one shoulder, dismissing her praise. “I have done only what is expected of me.”

“More, if you ask me,” Mrs. Watson declared, giving her a pointed look. “Aside from your terrible cooking abilities, you have kept this house running.”

“I daresay you are giving me far too much credit since you do all the work,” Mattie said. “Besides, I am not sure if the dressmaker will have time to create elaborate gowns for the Season, much less all the other accessories I will require. Perhaps it is just a wishful fantasy on my part.”

Mrs. Watson grew thoughtful. “What of your mother’s gowns?” she asked. “You have yet to look through them in all these years. ”

“I am sure that they are terribly outdated.”

“No doubt, but that doesn’t mean you can’t use the fabric to create a reticule or use them to line a bonnet,” the housekeeper suggested.

Mattie smiled at that thought. “I shall look at the gowns later and see if any of the fabric is salvageable.”

Mrs. Watson’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. “You should do more than just look. Imagine what you can create with those fabrics.” She rose. “Come, let us fetch that trunk from the attic.”

Mattie’s excitement grew as she followed Mrs. Watson up the narrow stairs to the attic. It had been far too long since she had gone through her mother’s things.

As they reached the attic, Mattie looked around the dust-covered treasures from the past. Mrs. Watson pointed to a large trunk in the corner, and together they lifted the lid. Inside were her mother’s gowns, each one a piece of history and a connection to the woman she dearly missed.

Carefully, Mattie unfolded the first gown, its fabric delicate yet vibrant despite the years. “These are beautiful,” she murmured, running her fingers over the intricate embroidery. “I had forgotten how lovely they were.”

Determined, Mattie began sorting through the gowns, envisioning what she could create with these fabrics. But the first step, and the most important, was convincing her father to allow her to have a Season.

This was her chance to step out of the shadows of duty and into the light of possibility. And she would not let it slip away.