Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens Page B
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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accordingly.”
“Ah.” He nodded, then dipped his head. “In that case, I’d better go and do my duty.”
He moved away, heading for the door.
Before he reached it, she swung around and said, “Thomas.” When he paused and looked at her, she met his gaze directly. “Thank you. From both me and them.” But especially from me.
His lips curved cynically. “No thanks required. I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted to—if I didn’t think I’d enjoy Homer’s company as much as he’ll enjoy the outing.”
She’d noticed that was a habit of his, downplaying his acts of kindness. She arched an equally cynical brow back. “And Pippin?”
The curve of his lips deepened. As he turned away, he said, “That, I believe, you should view as an attempt to keep the peace.”
She snorted, then, shaking her head at his ways, reached for the kettle.
S everal hours later, Thomas guided Silver down the hill into Porthleven, Homer on the pony trotting alongside.
The ride from the manor along the cliffs had been uneventful. Silver had wanted to canter, but the pony’s shorter legs wouldn’t keep up; Thomas had had to rein the gray in, and Silver was now disgusted, trudging along in the equivalent of a horsey sulk.
But the steep descent into the tiny harbor village had them all looking about, even Silver.
The day had started fine, but light clouds had blown up, intermittently blocking the sun. Now that they were by the shore, the breeze had stiffened a touch but remained more flirtatious than forceful.
They had come into the village around the western headland; the harbor and village lay in the steep cleft between the twin headlands, where the land descended sharply to meet the waves of the Channel.
Whitewashed buildings lined the cobbled road that encircled the small harbor. A seawall extended from the western shore across the harbor mouth, protecting many small sailing and fishermen’s boats bobbing at anchor behind it from the sometimes destructive swells of the Channel. From the eastern headland opposite, a breakwater curved out and across, creating a barrier to shield the entrance to the harbor itself, the gap between the end of the seawall and the quay lining the eastern shore.
The village had grown up around the stone quays bordering the three sides of the harbor, with most houses scattered up the long slope of the eastern headland.
Shute Lane was easy to find, on the eastern side just above the harbor. Thomas and Homer drew rein outside Number 4, a tiny fisherman’s cottage with bright spring flowers in a box along the front window.
Gatting answered Thomas’s knock. Now old and wizened, and heavily dependent on the cane over which he hunched, Gatting covered his shock at Thomas’s injuries, yet, regardless, it was plain that the old man was pleased to see him.
Thomas hadn’t intended to go inside, to, as he’d thought of it, impose on the old couple’s hospitality, but Gatting would have none of it, and when he called Mrs. Gatting to the door and she added her entreaties, Thomas realized he couldn’t—shouldn’t—refuse them.
Sometimes, the rights and wrongs of how he should behave still escaped him.
Indeed, it was Homer who largely led the way; noting how the Gattings responded to the boy, who they knew from their shared years at the manor, Thomas decided he should follow Homer’s lead.
So he and Homer sat in the cramped little parlor and allowed the Gattings to serve them morning tea. Homer and Gatting chatted all the while, and in between, Gatting inquired after Thomas’s plans for the manor. The arrival of Mrs. Gatting, still round and plump with a cherubic face, carrying a tray that included a plate piled with slices of pound cake, created a diversion that saved Thomas from having to invent too much.
Settling on the settle, Mrs. Gatting railed at the fate that had seen him so badly injured, but, as he was learning was common with ordinary people, she accepted that life went on
“Ah.” He nodded, then dipped his head. “In that case, I’d better go and do my duty.”
He moved away, heading for the door.
Before he reached it, she swung around and said, “Thomas.” When he paused and looked at her, she met his gaze directly. “Thank you. From both me and them.” But especially from me.
His lips curved cynically. “No thanks required. I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t wanted to—if I didn’t think I’d enjoy Homer’s company as much as he’ll enjoy the outing.”
She’d noticed that was a habit of his, downplaying his acts of kindness. She arched an equally cynical brow back. “And Pippin?”
The curve of his lips deepened. As he turned away, he said, “That, I believe, you should view as an attempt to keep the peace.”
She snorted, then, shaking her head at his ways, reached for the kettle.
S everal hours later, Thomas guided Silver down the hill into Porthleven, Homer on the pony trotting alongside.
The ride from the manor along the cliffs had been uneventful. Silver had wanted to canter, but the pony’s shorter legs wouldn’t keep up; Thomas had had to rein the gray in, and Silver was now disgusted, trudging along in the equivalent of a horsey sulk.
But the steep descent into the tiny harbor village had them all looking about, even Silver.
The day had started fine, but light clouds had blown up, intermittently blocking the sun. Now that they were by the shore, the breeze had stiffened a touch but remained more flirtatious than forceful.
They had come into the village around the western headland; the harbor and village lay in the steep cleft between the twin headlands, where the land descended sharply to meet the waves of the Channel.
Whitewashed buildings lined the cobbled road that encircled the small harbor. A seawall extended from the western shore across the harbor mouth, protecting many small sailing and fishermen’s boats bobbing at anchor behind it from the sometimes destructive swells of the Channel. From the eastern headland opposite, a breakwater curved out and across, creating a barrier to shield the entrance to the harbor itself, the gap between the end of the seawall and the quay lining the eastern shore.
The village had grown up around the stone quays bordering the three sides of the harbor, with most houses scattered up the long slope of the eastern headland.
Shute Lane was easy to find, on the eastern side just above the harbor. Thomas and Homer drew rein outside Number 4, a tiny fisherman’s cottage with bright spring flowers in a box along the front window.
Gatting answered Thomas’s knock. Now old and wizened, and heavily dependent on the cane over which he hunched, Gatting covered his shock at Thomas’s injuries, yet, regardless, it was plain that the old man was pleased to see him.
Thomas hadn’t intended to go inside, to, as he’d thought of it, impose on the old couple’s hospitality, but Gatting would have none of it, and when he called Mrs. Gatting to the door and she added her entreaties, Thomas realized he couldn’t—shouldn’t—refuse them.
Sometimes, the rights and wrongs of how he should behave still escaped him.
Indeed, it was Homer who largely led the way; noting how the Gattings responded to the boy, who they knew from their shared years at the manor, Thomas decided he should follow Homer’s lead.
So he and Homer sat in the cramped little parlor and allowed the Gattings to serve them morning tea. Homer and Gatting chatted all the while, and in between, Gatting inquired after Thomas’s plans for the manor. The arrival of Mrs. Gatting, still round and plump with a cherubic face, carrying a tray that included a plate piled with slices of pound cake, created a diversion that saved Thomas from having to invent too much.
Settling on the settle, Mrs. Gatting railed at the fate that had seen him so badly injured, but, as he was learning was common with ordinary people, she accepted that life went on
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