over the lavender borders of the flower beds. Once in a while, a particularly merry burst of laughter made its way to her ears, but other than that, she felt all alone in the enchanted night.
All alone—except for Lord Ransome. Even though she had left him behind on the terrace, he still seemed with her. His words were still in her mind.
She stopped at the edge of the manicured gardens, and leaned back against a sheltering old oak to stare up at the moon. She had known that Lord Ransome was not a frivolous man—no one could fight in a war for years and be frivolous. Even so, his words tonight had surprised and moved her. They had been brief, but full of some pain and despair that was usually hidden. She had wanted to know more, to take his hand in hers, to comfort him if she could.
The urge had been so great, that she had to clutch her fork in her fist until the patterned silver pressed into her skin. It had been so strong that it had frightened her.
Sarah had thought, hoped, that Lord Ransome’s visit to the village would show him how important her work there was. Now she knew, from his words tonight, that he still had some other plan for the land. She did not know what that plan could be; no doubt he would tell her “later,” as promised.
And that would be the end of her work here. She could find another project, of course; she could write her book with what knowledge she had already gained. But it would not be the same.
“I wanted to finish this for you, John,” she whispered aloud. “I wanted to finish it for myself.” It had been the first thing in the world that felt like it was hers.
Well, who says you cannot finish it? a contrary voice at the back of her mind whispered. You just have to work harder at persuading Lord Ransome.
Sarah laughed at herself. How could she ever persuade him of the importance of her work, when her thoughts grew all jumbled and silly when she was around him? She had never been very good at persuasive arguments at the best of times, and feminine wiles only felt ridiculous.
But the voice was right—she did have to at least try to make him see the importance of her position. She had never given up on anything she cared about, not without a fight. She had refused to give in to her mother, when she tried to stop Sarah from marrying John. She had not given the village over to Neville Hamilton, when everyone expected her to. And now this village was too important to just surrender.
Sarah pushed away from the tree, and turned her steps back toward the house. It was time for her to find Mary Ann, and summon their carriage to go home. She had to plan out carefully what she would say to Lord Ransome.
Mary Ann stood at the top of the terrace steps, peering down into the dark garden. She knew she had seen Sarah go this way quite a while ago, and she was beginning to be a bit worried. It was not like her sister to go wandering away, and besides, it was growing late. Miss Milton and her grandfather had gone home, and Mary Ann was tired.
Her head ached from the effort of laughing and chatting all evening, while she watched Mr. Hamilton and his giggling bride.
Mary Ann glanced back over her shoulder. Many of the guests had departed, and those who were left drifted back through the French doors into the drawing room. Mr. Hamilton was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Hamilton was hanging on to Lord Ransome’s arm, laughing up at him. In return, he gave her a rather strained smile.
Mary Ann sniffed. Really, some women were terribly shameless! Mrs. Hamilton already had one husband, and now she was flirting with Lord Ransome, just because he was a marquis. And it was quite obvious that he preferred her sister, as any sane man would.
Perhaps that was why Mr. Hamilton had looked so morose and angry ever since he had come back from his wedding trip, she thought. The man she had known before, the one she imagined to be a gallant knight in a story, had been serious to be sure. But he had also told
All alone—except for Lord Ransome. Even though she had left him behind on the terrace, he still seemed with her. His words were still in her mind.
She stopped at the edge of the manicured gardens, and leaned back against a sheltering old oak to stare up at the moon. She had known that Lord Ransome was not a frivolous man—no one could fight in a war for years and be frivolous. Even so, his words tonight had surprised and moved her. They had been brief, but full of some pain and despair that was usually hidden. She had wanted to know more, to take his hand in hers, to comfort him if she could.
The urge had been so great, that she had to clutch her fork in her fist until the patterned silver pressed into her skin. It had been so strong that it had frightened her.
Sarah had thought, hoped, that Lord Ransome’s visit to the village would show him how important her work there was. Now she knew, from his words tonight, that he still had some other plan for the land. She did not know what that plan could be; no doubt he would tell her “later,” as promised.
And that would be the end of her work here. She could find another project, of course; she could write her book with what knowledge she had already gained. But it would not be the same.
“I wanted to finish this for you, John,” she whispered aloud. “I wanted to finish it for myself.” It had been the first thing in the world that felt like it was hers.
Well, who says you cannot finish it? a contrary voice at the back of her mind whispered. You just have to work harder at persuading Lord Ransome.
Sarah laughed at herself. How could she ever persuade him of the importance of her work, when her thoughts grew all jumbled and silly when she was around him? She had never been very good at persuasive arguments at the best of times, and feminine wiles only felt ridiculous.
But the voice was right—she did have to at least try to make him see the importance of her position. She had never given up on anything she cared about, not without a fight. She had refused to give in to her mother, when she tried to stop Sarah from marrying John. She had not given the village over to Neville Hamilton, when everyone expected her to. And now this village was too important to just surrender.
Sarah pushed away from the tree, and turned her steps back toward the house. It was time for her to find Mary Ann, and summon their carriage to go home. She had to plan out carefully what she would say to Lord Ransome.
Mary Ann stood at the top of the terrace steps, peering down into the dark garden. She knew she had seen Sarah go this way quite a while ago, and she was beginning to be a bit worried. It was not like her sister to go wandering away, and besides, it was growing late. Miss Milton and her grandfather had gone home, and Mary Ann was tired.
Her head ached from the effort of laughing and chatting all evening, while she watched Mr. Hamilton and his giggling bride.
Mary Ann glanced back over her shoulder. Many of the guests had departed, and those who were left drifted back through the French doors into the drawing room. Mr. Hamilton was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Hamilton was hanging on to Lord Ransome’s arm, laughing up at him. In return, he gave her a rather strained smile.
Mary Ann sniffed. Really, some women were terribly shameless! Mrs. Hamilton already had one husband, and now she was flirting with Lord Ransome, just because he was a marquis. And it was quite obvious that he preferred her sister, as any sane man would.
Perhaps that was why Mr. Hamilton had looked so morose and angry ever since he had come back from his wedding trip, she thought. The man she had known before, the one she imagined to be a gallant knight in a story, had been serious to be sure. But he had also told
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