her wayward niece was never part of the bargain.”
Mariah was horrified to find her eyes filling. “I see.” She bit the inside of her lip to keep the tears in check.
He glanced at her, hesitated, then stared off in thought, his dark eyes speculative, and perhaps, softening. He spread his hands expansively. “If it were only up to me, Miss Aubrey, I might lower your rent, or at least allow an extension. But you see, the new tenant is a hard, unbending man. He shall be in charge for the next six months, though Hammersmith will no doubt administrate the new master’s wishes. You understand, I trust? It is quite out of my hands.”
Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.
– Robert Browning
chapter 6
As the April sun dispersed the morning mist, Captain Matthew Bryant strode across the grounds of Windrush Court, feeling like a man surveying his own land. He wore a new olive frock coat, striped waistcoat, cravat, and beaver top hat. And if the looking glass he’d consulted that morning could be trusted, he appeared every inch the gentleman.
A budding tremble of hope, of eagerness and pride, was growing within him. He could see himself here. Could imagine himself master of a grand estate like this. He wondered what his parents would say to find him living in such a place. What she would say. Would her certain surprise be coupled with admiration, with the acknowledgement that she had known he would succeed all along? Would she join him in exalting over the naysayers of his worth and suitability, her own father chief among them?
Ahead of him, Matthew saw a field of bluebells like a purple-blue sea. How lovely. He had spent so much of his life aboard ships that such sights still awed him.
A woman knelt there among the flowers. With her blue dress, he had almost missed her. Her dark hair was pinned in a thick coil at the back of her head. Her long fair neck curved gracefully as she bent over . . . what? . . . a letter? A book?
So still was she that she looked like a figure in a painting, a landscape of vivid green stems reaching up, her blue frock surrounded by bright bluebells nearly to her waist, her head bowed like the head of a lovely flower.
He stared, moved by the scene. Was she praying? Weeping? He stepped forward and a twig snapped. Her head turned at the interruption, mouth ajar.
Her profile was delicate, feminine – upturned nose, high cheekbones – and somehow familiar. Who was she? Prin-Hallsey had not mentioned a wife or sister.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, feeling sheepish to be caught spying. “I did not intend to trespass on your solitude.” He walked closer with hand extended to help her up, but she ignored it and rose to her feet unaided.
She gave her dress an ineffectual swipe with one hand. In her other, she held a folded letter. Her bearing, her gown, bespoke the lady, though her hands, he noticed, were less than pristine. Her complexion was fair. Her features finely formed. When she looked up at him, her eyes were large, amber brown, and fringed with dark lashes. He had spent so many years on ships filled with men that the sight of a beautiful woman still awed him as well.
Then he recognized her with a start. The girl from the gatehouse, who had assisted him in recapturing his horse. He was embarrassed to recall his ineffectual behavior that night, his display of timidity. But he was also grateful for her help all over again.
“It is you,” he began foolishly. “I almost did not recognize you. Without the cap, I mean, and . . . well, you were dressed so . . . That is, I thought you were . . .”
“A maidservant?” she said easily.
He winced. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You came upon me in my jam-making attire.” She smiled. “Yet I recognize you out of uniform, Captain Bryant.”
What a charming smile she had. Such perfect teeth. He smiled in return, gratified she had remembered his name.
“And how is your horse?” she asked. “No worse for
Mariah was horrified to find her eyes filling. “I see.” She bit the inside of her lip to keep the tears in check.
He glanced at her, hesitated, then stared off in thought, his dark eyes speculative, and perhaps, softening. He spread his hands expansively. “If it were only up to me, Miss Aubrey, I might lower your rent, or at least allow an extension. But you see, the new tenant is a hard, unbending man. He shall be in charge for the next six months, though Hammersmith will no doubt administrate the new master’s wishes. You understand, I trust? It is quite out of my hands.”
Oh, to be in England now that April’s there.
– Robert Browning
chapter 6
As the April sun dispersed the morning mist, Captain Matthew Bryant strode across the grounds of Windrush Court, feeling like a man surveying his own land. He wore a new olive frock coat, striped waistcoat, cravat, and beaver top hat. And if the looking glass he’d consulted that morning could be trusted, he appeared every inch the gentleman.
A budding tremble of hope, of eagerness and pride, was growing within him. He could see himself here. Could imagine himself master of a grand estate like this. He wondered what his parents would say to find him living in such a place. What she would say. Would her certain surprise be coupled with admiration, with the acknowledgement that she had known he would succeed all along? Would she join him in exalting over the naysayers of his worth and suitability, her own father chief among them?
Ahead of him, Matthew saw a field of bluebells like a purple-blue sea. How lovely. He had spent so much of his life aboard ships that such sights still awed him.
A woman knelt there among the flowers. With her blue dress, he had almost missed her. Her dark hair was pinned in a thick coil at the back of her head. Her long fair neck curved gracefully as she bent over . . . what? . . . a letter? A book?
So still was she that she looked like a figure in a painting, a landscape of vivid green stems reaching up, her blue frock surrounded by bright bluebells nearly to her waist, her head bowed like the head of a lovely flower.
He stared, moved by the scene. Was she praying? Weeping? He stepped forward and a twig snapped. Her head turned at the interruption, mouth ajar.
Her profile was delicate, feminine – upturned nose, high cheekbones – and somehow familiar. Who was she? Prin-Hallsey had not mentioned a wife or sister.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, feeling sheepish to be caught spying. “I did not intend to trespass on your solitude.” He walked closer with hand extended to help her up, but she ignored it and rose to her feet unaided.
She gave her dress an ineffectual swipe with one hand. In her other, she held a folded letter. Her bearing, her gown, bespoke the lady, though her hands, he noticed, were less than pristine. Her complexion was fair. Her features finely formed. When she looked up at him, her eyes were large, amber brown, and fringed with dark lashes. He had spent so many years on ships filled with men that the sight of a beautiful woman still awed him as well.
Then he recognized her with a start. The girl from the gatehouse, who had assisted him in recapturing his horse. He was embarrassed to recall his ineffectual behavior that night, his display of timidity. But he was also grateful for her help all over again.
“It is you,” he began foolishly. “I almost did not recognize you. Without the cap, I mean, and . . . well, you were dressed so . . . That is, I thought you were . . .”
“A maidservant?” she said easily.
He winced. “Forgive me.”
“There is nothing to forgive. You came upon me in my jam-making attire.” She smiled. “Yet I recognize you out of uniform, Captain Bryant.”
What a charming smile she had. Such perfect teeth. He smiled in return, gratified she had remembered his name.
“And how is your horse?” she asked. “No worse for
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