the sky, but replied without interest, “So it would appear. Good-bye, then —and thank you for your assistance.”
“I did nothing.”
She frowned at the harsh tone of his voice, but he only smiled regretfully and said, “I shall go now. Do not be standing about in the cold.” He took her hand and pressed it between his two. The lingering distress in her eyes made him want to say more, but he thought she would not understand.
“Good-bye,” he said quickly, and left her.
* * * *
The storm broke that evening and continued overnight, signalling a return to the cold weather that had plagued the country that winter. By Monday afternoon the wind had eased, but the rain continued, so that Belding was amazed to open the door to a caller who came in dripping water from his heavy frieze cloak and slouch hat and asking to see Miss Fairfax. Belding, ill concealing his fascination at this bizarre costume, relieved him with some trepidation of the cloak, said he would inform the lady of his arrival, and send a maid scurrying for a hairbrush and a towel.
Antonia found her visitor a few minutes later in front of the library fire, and for an instant she did not recognise him. He was wearing a shirt of some rough cloth, open at the neck, over which he had thrown a sheepskin vest of sorts, with no sleeves. His boots were uncharacteristically scuffed, and his dark hair, although recently brushed, shone with damp.
He had brought in with him an unmistakeable aura of the out-of-doors, and Antonia, coming from a small, well-heated room, was a little taken aback at his vitality, as if a wild creature had been let into the house.
“Why, Lord Kedrington! What an intrepid caller you are, to be sure. Are the roads very bad?”
“I rode across country,” he said, advancing quickly toward her and taking her hand. “It was quicker and not at all discommoding, so you may spare your kind solicitude.”
“I assure you, my solicitude was all for your unfortunate horse!” she said, then gave in to curiosity and asked, “Is that how you dressed in Spain?”
“Only to informal parties,” he said, smiling.
As if the words triggered some instinct in her, she waved him toward the sofa and said, “You will, of course, take some tea to warm you.”
“Thank you, but I cannot stay long. I merely came to say...but tell me first if you have heard anything of the Hatchers?”
She made him sit down, if for no other reason than to reduce the forceful effect of his proximity. “Oh, yes! The baby is much improved. Maureen—Mrs Fletcher, that is—has taken both Susan and the baby into her home, where they may be properly looked after until Susan is well enough to take the child back to the cottage. Little Henry improved immediately when Dr Metcalf found a wet-nurse for him in the village, and a few bowls of Maureen’s excellent potato soup will soon put Susan back on her feet. Ned complains loudly about having his two youngest boys sleeping on a trundle bed in their parents’ room, but I know he is glad to help.”
“You are fortunate to have such a man in your service.”
“Yes, he is a great help to me. My brother’s first bailiff was not so honest and thought he could cheat an inexperienced woman. I was forced to let him go shortly after Anthony died, but Philip Kenyon happened upon Ned during one of his—Uncle Philip’s, I mean — expeditions into the West Country. The poor man was obliged to pack up and move his home and entire family all the way to Leicestershire, but I am very grateful that he did.”
She did not know why she was rattling away in this distracted fashion and made herself stop and take a deep breath before asking, with more composure, “What is the other thing you wished to say to me?”
“That I am leaving for London in the morning.”
She thought for a moment that she had not heard him, through the sudden ringing in her ears. But he was still speaking.
“Urgent family affairs call me away. I had a letter
“I did nothing.”
She frowned at the harsh tone of his voice, but he only smiled regretfully and said, “I shall go now. Do not be standing about in the cold.” He took her hand and pressed it between his two. The lingering distress in her eyes made him want to say more, but he thought she would not understand.
“Good-bye,” he said quickly, and left her.
* * * *
The storm broke that evening and continued overnight, signalling a return to the cold weather that had plagued the country that winter. By Monday afternoon the wind had eased, but the rain continued, so that Belding was amazed to open the door to a caller who came in dripping water from his heavy frieze cloak and slouch hat and asking to see Miss Fairfax. Belding, ill concealing his fascination at this bizarre costume, relieved him with some trepidation of the cloak, said he would inform the lady of his arrival, and send a maid scurrying for a hairbrush and a towel.
Antonia found her visitor a few minutes later in front of the library fire, and for an instant she did not recognise him. He was wearing a shirt of some rough cloth, open at the neck, over which he had thrown a sheepskin vest of sorts, with no sleeves. His boots were uncharacteristically scuffed, and his dark hair, although recently brushed, shone with damp.
He had brought in with him an unmistakeable aura of the out-of-doors, and Antonia, coming from a small, well-heated room, was a little taken aback at his vitality, as if a wild creature had been let into the house.
“Why, Lord Kedrington! What an intrepid caller you are, to be sure. Are the roads very bad?”
“I rode across country,” he said, advancing quickly toward her and taking her hand. “It was quicker and not at all discommoding, so you may spare your kind solicitude.”
“I assure you, my solicitude was all for your unfortunate horse!” she said, then gave in to curiosity and asked, “Is that how you dressed in Spain?”
“Only to informal parties,” he said, smiling.
As if the words triggered some instinct in her, she waved him toward the sofa and said, “You will, of course, take some tea to warm you.”
“Thank you, but I cannot stay long. I merely came to say...but tell me first if you have heard anything of the Hatchers?”
She made him sit down, if for no other reason than to reduce the forceful effect of his proximity. “Oh, yes! The baby is much improved. Maureen—Mrs Fletcher, that is—has taken both Susan and the baby into her home, where they may be properly looked after until Susan is well enough to take the child back to the cottage. Little Henry improved immediately when Dr Metcalf found a wet-nurse for him in the village, and a few bowls of Maureen’s excellent potato soup will soon put Susan back on her feet. Ned complains loudly about having his two youngest boys sleeping on a trundle bed in their parents’ room, but I know he is glad to help.”
“You are fortunate to have such a man in your service.”
“Yes, he is a great help to me. My brother’s first bailiff was not so honest and thought he could cheat an inexperienced woman. I was forced to let him go shortly after Anthony died, but Philip Kenyon happened upon Ned during one of his—Uncle Philip’s, I mean — expeditions into the West Country. The poor man was obliged to pack up and move his home and entire family all the way to Leicestershire, but I am very grateful that he did.”
She did not know why she was rattling away in this distracted fashion and made herself stop and take a deep breath before asking, with more composure, “What is the other thing you wished to say to me?”
“That I am leaving for London in the morning.”
She thought for a moment that she had not heard him, through the sudden ringing in her ears. But he was still speaking.
“Urgent family affairs call me away. I had a letter
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