“Good.”
It took every bit of Maris’s will for her to tear her gaze from his and walk toward the door. As she passed Goodwin, he gave her a silent nod. He opened the door so she could leave. She was glad he did, because her fingers trembled, and she was not sure she could have managed the latch.
She rushed toward the stairs leading up to the nursery floor. Tonight, the children needed to rest after their eventful day. But in the morning, once they finished breakfast and were clean and dressed, she would let them know about the outing with Lord Trelawney. They would be excited to have their tea al fresco. While they played, she would sit with the viscount for what she hoped would be another comfortable coze.
She halted in the middle of the staircase and clutched the banister. Oh, sweet heavens! Was she looking forward to seeing Lord Trelawney again on the morrow? She had no idea which version of him would be there: the quiet, almost forbidding man who had gone with them to the cove or the genial man whom she had spoken with minutes ago.
But it should not matter. The abrupt change should be alarming rather than appealing, a signal to remind her that becoming involved even a tiny bit in the viscount’s life could lead her into a desperate situation. As when Lord Litchfield had chanced upon her alone in the book room. Had she completely lost every bit of her good sense? It would seem so, and she must recover it fast.
Very fast, before she ruined everything again, including herself.
Though clouds gathered on the western horizon, sunlight shone through the changing leaves as if the whole world was bedecked in stained glass. Arthur inhaled deeply as he sat on the terrace overlooking the garden and the sea spread out to the horizon. Some autumn days could be unforgivingly windy, and today seemed like a special gift, before winter took Cornwall in its unforgiving grip.
He savored sitting in the sunshine while a breeze carried the pungent aromas of salt, drying fish and tar from the harbor. Even though he had been confined to the house less than a day, it seemed longer to a man accustomed to a life outdoors.
The rhythm of hammers came from where the stable was being rebuilt. It had burned two months ago, but the new one was rising. He had overseen the plans for it, and the building would be well suited for their use.
“You look satisfied with yourself,” said his older sister as she stepped onto the terrace. Carrie shifted into the shade so the baby she carried would not be bothered by the sunshine.
He started to rise, then thought better of it when pain slashed up his leg. Sinking into the chair, he said, “I was thinking of how those French pirates who tried to invade Porthlowen did us a favor by giving us an excuse to build a new stable.”
Carrie shivered and sat facing him. “You have an odd way of seeing good in something terrible.”
“As Shakespeare wrote, ‘Ill blows the wind that profits nobody.’” Arthur chuckled. “My tutor despaired of me ever retaining his lessons, but for some reason that quote stayed with me.”
She slapped his arm playfully. “Do not pretend with me, Arthur. You always loved learning. While Raymond, Susanna and I were eager to play, you clung to the schoolroom. The dutiful son, learning his lessons and staying out of trouble.”
“Sometimes.” Again, the image burst into his head of his baby sister lying facedown in the water. “When I was younger, I was not as responsible.”
“None of us were.” She gazed out at the sea. “How could we spend our time in books when we had a vast wonderland to explore in Porthlowen?”
They sat in companionable silence, enjoying the sunshine. He kept his leg motionless, not wanting more of the jagged pains that sliced up from his ankle when he walked. He had refused to allow Goodwin to call for a couple of burly footmen to carry him from his bedchamber through the house. Being toted about like a helpless fool would be humiliating. Perhaps he had been foolish to give chase after the child instead of allowing Miss Oliver to retrieve him, but Arthur would not hesitate to do the same again.
You have the heart of a hero. Cranny’s words echoed in his memory. Always ready to go to someone’s rescue, no matter the cost.
At the time, Arthur had taken the words as a compliment. Now he was less certain his friend had intended them that way. Of course, Arthur would never be the great man that his friend was, giving his life in service to his country.
His hands fisted on the arms of his chair. His attempts to find out the truth about Cranny’s murder had led him to dead ends. The people present at his friend’s death had gone to earth and taken the truth with them.
“How are you getting along with the children?” Carrie’s voice intruded on his thoughts.
He pushed them aside gratefully. Until he had a new lead, losing himself in his frustration was a useless exercise. He pasted a smile on and faced her. “I seem to have made a friend of young Bertie.”
“I am glad to hear that.” She laughed. “They will be arriving soon, I am sure.”
“Who?”
“The children.” She dimpled as she laughed again. “Oh, Arthur, you are transparent at times. You have been glancing at the door every few seconds. Each time you do and no one is there, your disappointment is all over your face.”
Had he been eyeing the door that frequently? He had not been aware of that, though he was eager to see the children again.
And Miss Oliver.
He ignored that unsettling thought as he had others. It would be easier if the mention of her name, even in his mind, did not bring forth the image of her gentle smile and her bright green eyes. Though she kept her blond hair pulled back, the wisps about her face looked like spun sugar, soft and teasing his fingers to brush them aside.
“You seem to have taken to the children,” Carrie said, serious once again, “with an alacrity I did not expect. Perhaps I was mistaken in thinking you had no real motivation for getting to know them. I assumed, after she married, your affection for Gwendolyn had cooled.”
“I have always considered her a dear friend.”
“I do hope you did not present your proposal to her in that letter you sent off to her this morning.”
He wagged a finger at his sister. “I listened to all your advice, Carrie.”
“Good, because I would not wish you to make a muddle of this before it even begins.”
He chuckled, and he saw her surprise. Had she thought he would be so burdened with pain he would be dreary company? No, he realized with astonishment. His sister did not expect to hear merriment coming from him because he had laughed seldom since the news of Cranny’s death reached Porthlowen.
As the months passed, his plans to avenge his friend consumed him. He tried to heed his brother’s counsel to accept the words in Romans 12:19. Raymond had even written out the passage on a page Arthur had tossed atop his desk: Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, sayeth the Lord.
It was impossible to forget Gwendolyn’s face lined with pain and sorrow as she had stood by Cranny’s grave. If there was any way Arthur could help God in this matter, he must.
Footsteps sounded inside the house, and he sat straighter. He watched the door, wondering which youngster would run out first.
Two white-haired women emerged. The Winwood twins lived in a simple cottage close to the harbor. They were the eldest residents of Porthlowen, but as spry as people half their age. Neither had ever married, because they had cared for their parents