His pain, she thought, was fathoms deep. He had learned to master it. But he was still adrift in life. Unlike her, he had not found his home. But, also unlike her, he had learned not to fear.
“Youwillstay for a while?” she asked him. Oh, she hoped she was not being selfish. But just for a few days…
“I will stay,” he said, lowering his eyes to hers. “For a while.”
15
The village of Fisherman’s Bridge consisted of just one street worth speaking of. It followed the coastline for perhaps a mile. There were no high cliffs here, only a sea wall with golden sands stretching beyond it to the water’s edge.
The inn was halfway along the street on the seaward side, the stables beside it rather than behind, where they would have obstructed the view from the dining room and taproom windows. There was a room available, and the landlord was delighted to let it to Major Sir Benedict Harper. It was quickly clear to Ben that the man knew exactly who he was. News traveled fast in small places. He knew too that Ben had come with Mrs. McKay, who was taking up residence in old Miss Bevan’s cottage beyond the sand dunes. He asked if it was true that she was the granddaughter of Mr. Bevan, and Ben confirmed that she was. There was no point in denying it. It was no secret, after all.
But who the devilwasBevan? It appeared that he was some sort of landowner.
His room was comfortable and afforded a view over the beach and sea. His dinner, prepared by the landlord’s wife, was tasty and plentiful, as Mrs. Price had predicted. He was the only occupant of the dining room, though if the sounds of boisterous voices and laughter were anything to judge by, the taproom next door was crowded. The landlord must be serving in there. It was his wife herself who brought Ben’s food and lingered to talk.
“It is lovely to know there is someone in Miss Bevan’s cottage again,” she said. “I have hated to see it sitting empty when it is such a pretty place.”
Ben could not resist doing some probing. “Mr. Bevan lives close to here, does he, Mrs. Davies?”
“Up at the big house, yes,” she told him, waving a hand inland. “If you go along the street to the bridge, you will be able to see it up on the hill in among the trees. A lovely situation, it is. His father before him chose the perfect spot for it when he decided to build.”
“There was no house on the land before that, then?” Ben asked.
“Only a farmhouse,” she said. “But it wasn’t big or grand enough for Mr. Bevan. Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it? He had that fortune he made from his coal mines, but it was here he chose to live and set up as a gentleman. He wanted a big house, and a lovely one he built. Our Marged works there as a chambermaid, and she gets a decent wage.”
“This roast beef is almost tender enough to cut with a fork,” Ben remarked. “And the roast potatoes are crisp on the outside and soft on the inside—just as I like them.”
“I do like to see a man tuck in to a hearty meal,” she said, clearly pleased.
“The present Mr. Bevan still has the mines, does he?” Ben asked.
“Those and the ironworks up the valley by Swansea there,” she told him. “That is where our oldest boy has gone to work. He earns good money. A number of lads from around here go there for work, and to the mines too. He is a good employer, Mr. Bevan is. Good to his workers. But he is getting on in years, and he has no sons to carry on after him, more’s the pity. Mrs. Bevan—the second one, that is—never was blessed with children before she died, poor lady.”
Ben was feeling guilty. All this was none of his business—except that he probably would have been having this exact conversation even if he were a stranger here. He would have been asking questions and finding out information of interest for his book. Indeed, he probably would have been delving deeper.
He wondered what Samantha was going to make of these facts when she knew them. What had she said to him earlier?
I am a bit afraid, perhaps. Afraid of Pandora’s box.
Some box!
“Perhaps he will take comfort from his granddaughter,” Mrs. Davies added. “A widow, is she, sir?”
“Her husband was my friend,” Ben explained. “I promised him before he died that I would see her safely settled here.”
Someone called from the kitchen, and Mrs. Davies hurried away with an apology for leaving him.
WasBevan going to be pleased to find his granddaughter living on his doorstep? And did he know yet that she was here?
One thing was sure, though, Ben thought as he cleaned off his plate. He was going to remain here until some of his questions had been answered. Samantha might yet need him.
It felt like an enormous relief, that realization.
Ben rode a horse from the inn stables to the cottage the next morning, Quinn behind him in order to help him dismount and then mount again for the return ride.
The sun was sparkling off the sea by the time they had ridden over the dunes, and there was warmth in the air. The front upstairs windows of the cottage were open, and the curtains were flapping in the breeze. The front door stood open too, and Samantha—yes, itwasshe—was bent over one of the bare beds under the parlor window, pulling out weeds. She was wearing gloves and an apron and an old, floppy-brimmed straw bonnet he had not seen before. She had left off her blacks again. Her dress was a pale lemon muslin and looked as if it had probably seen better days.
Ben drew his horse to a halt in order to enjoy a longer look at her. She looked relaxed and wholesome, as if she had always belonged here. The realization caused him a pang of something. Exclusion? Loneliness? For she would probably belong here long after he had gone.
