“Mr. Eston has given me to understand that the Gift would be reinstated,” he said, a small frown marring the shiny radiance of his features.
“Of course,” she said.
Smiling brightly at Jeremy Beecher, she picked up her journal, took one step back, and managed to remember her manners.
“Thank you, Mr. Beecher. If I have any further questions, I shall ring for you.”
“Of course, Lady Sarah,” he said, half bowing.
Sarah left his chamber, intent on escape. Instead of retracing her steps, she descended the steps hidden by the false wall and entered the portico that led to the garden.
Before her mother had become ill, Morna used to spend her mornings here, tending to the roses she’d loved so much. Sarah sat on the bench near the multicolored blooms, feeling the sun on her head. She couldn’tremember the names of the roses, but she could almost hear her mother’s voice. “You must always care for those who cannot care for themselves, dearling. The strong must protect the weak.”
Who had protected Morna? For that matter, about whom was she speaking? Had she considered herself strong? Strong enough to ignore the family that had reached out to her?
So many things Sarah had thought were real were only real when viewed from a certain angle. If she stepped back, or to the side, another picture emerged. Her memories of her mother, how necessary she was to Chavensworth, even Sarah’s marriage, her own propriety—each of these had changed in the last weeks. She felt as if her foundations had been shaken, as if everything she knew wasn’t certain anymore.
She stood and began walking, nodding to the occasional gardener. Once, Chavensworth had employed a staff of twelve to see to the grounds, but in the last year, they could only afford four. Each man was overworked, and there were times when she regretted the necessity for economy, especially now, when the boxwoods needed trimming, and the rosebushes needed to be replanted.
She clutched her journal tighter. People weren’t always what they seemed. Look at her mother, for example. She would never have known, for all the Duchess of Herridge’s propriety, that she had been with child outside of marriage. Although it was not a situation all that uncommon, it didn’t seem right that the oh-so-proper Morna would be one of those women. But Scotland had taught her that she hadn’t known her mother as well as she’d thought.
Suddenly, she realized that there was nothing she needed to do. She had no duties in the next several hours. No appointments needed to be kept. For the first time in a very long time, she had the freedom to do as she wished, and she owed that to Douglas.
She left the garden, heading for her favorite place at Chavensworth, the tall and spreading oak atop a small knoll. Here, her earliest memories of her mother had been formed. She could remember countless afternoons resting against the trunk, listening while her mother read fromIvanhoeor another of her favorite books.
For years, she’d trailed after her mother as Morna had attended to Chavensworth. Sarah had her own set of keys, for unimportant locks. Their conversation had been about necessary things: candles and lamp oil, bootblack and livery, the proper recipes for furniture wax and silver polish. They had rarely spoken of Morna’s past or, for that matter, Sarah’s future. While it was also true that her mother had made her childhood magical with tales of knights and princesses and hoary dragons, it struck Sarah as she sat there that her mother had told stories more than she had ever truly conversed.
What secrets had she hidden with such skill?
The truth was that she would never know.
Sarah settled her skirts, spreading them out in an almost perfect circle around her. She opened the journal and, after retrieving the pencil from her pocket, began to write.
When she finished, she sat back against the old trunk, thinking of Douglas.
What had life been like for him as child growing up in Perth? For that matter, what kind of man leaves hishome and changes himself to that degree? Had he expected her to repudiate him? Instead, she could only admire him.
Her father would be horrified.
How strange that she’d not thought of her father until now. Even though the marriage was his decision, and due to his manipulation, he would not be pleased that his only child was married to a man who’d once been poor and destitute. But was the Duke of Herridge even her father?
There was one person at Chavensworth to whom she could tell the story of Morna and Michael, and up until now she’d not done so. One person would listen and give her advice if she asked. Besides, she needed to thank him for funding the Henley Gift.
Smiling, she stood and went in search of her husband.
The morning was a bright, sunny one, with not a cloud in the sky. Nothing would interfere with the progress of curing the diamonds.
Douglas caught a glimpse of Sarah as he turned to put more wood into the fire. He watched her walk along the graveled path, her skirts swinging.
“Good morning,” he said pleasantly, spearing the shovel into the ground, clasping both hands on the end of the handle and leaning against it.
She looked straight at him, then smiled slowly, sending heat straight to his groin. She took in his appearance from the top of his head to his toes. The fact that he’d shed his shirt earlier hadn’t meant much to him at the time, but it did now. He was—conveniently—halfway to undressed.
“We have servants, Mr. Eston,” she said, her tonevery measured. There was, however, a twinkle in her eye, and her voice trembled slightly.
“Not for this, we don’t,” he said. “No one works on my diamonds.”
She nodded, fixing her gaze on his chest. Suddenly, most of the heat he was experiencing was being generated by his body and not the furnace.
