For all his humor and irreverence, Frederick saw her with startling clarity, cutting straight to the heart of things and teasing apart her tangled thoughts until the truth pulled free.It was infuriating, sometimes, how easily he could turn her arguments inside out and uncover that which she wished to hide.
Thea’s gaze drifted over the familiar shopfronts as they walked. They stood dark and still with shutters drawn, the painted signs swaying faintly in the wind. Even the draper’s window, bright with ribbons the day before, was veiled in a length of plain muslin to protect the inventory, though the sun had chosen not to make an appearance that day.
If she were to speak to Frederick, he would tell her to accept their situation and choose someone better than him. Just as Phoebe begged her to surrender. Yet that was what neither seemed to comprehend: there was no one better for her than him.
Logic or love? What a question.
The truth was that no one could live solely on one or the other. Balance was the key to happiness, and Frederick and Father’s objections to the match weren’t without merit. What did Thea know of running a household? All her experience and training were based on the belief that she would employ maids to see to the household.
As they walked, the high street petered out, the road shifting from busy thoroughfare to meandering country lane, curving gently through the open fields. The familiar outline of Rensford Park’s gates was barely visible through the gray haze, and beside them, half-hidden behind a hedge of wild roses and ivy, stood The End House, which marked the boundary between the village and Thea’s home.
The mists gathered low over the hedgerows, and she felt the faintest stirring of relief: conversation, no matter how polite, felt easier when there was space enough to breathe. Thea drew in a lungful, the first in some time. The air here was cooler. Cleaner. And it carried the scent of damp earth and the faint sweetness of the hedgerows.
And with that breath came clarity. The epiphany struck so suddenly that her step faltered as the thought bloomed, whole and vivid, in her mind.
How had she not seen it before? All this time brooding and fretting, and the answer had been tucked neatly between the village and Rensford Park, waiting for her to see it. A spark of astonishment flared in her chest, chased quickly by disbelief at her own blindness.
“I do beg your pardon, Mr. Downey,” said Thea, tossing out the words before her courage failed her. “I entirely forgot that I promised to pay a call on Mrs. Brinn.”
Mr. Downey glanced toward the cottage. “I said I would escort you home.”
“And you have,” she said, stepping away from him with a comforting grin. “Our front gate is just there, and I can certainly manage the distance without any trouble. I may be at The End House for some time, and I would hate to force you to sit there simply to walk me a few feet.”
Opening his mouth as though to insist, Thea held up a staying hand. “Please. She will not be at ease with a stranger at my side. She is hardly comfortable with me underfoot, and I have known her for some time.”
Mr. Downey gave that a considering nod, glancing at the cottage and then the gates that led to Rensford Park as though that great and mighty distance was akin to crossing the county.
“I make the journey quite often to bring her charity baskets,” added Thea. “My mother will think nothing of it.”
“Of course.” But Mr. Downey did not move from his spot. Shifting in place, he drummed his fingers along his thigh. “I do hope… perhaps I might be so bold… If you wouldn’t mind, that is… Would you join me on a drive tomorrow?”
A refusal came quickly to her lips as it would spare them both from an outing that was bound to go nowhere. Yet the wordsheld fast to her tongue, cautioning her against a hasty response. If her plan was to work, she could not do it halfway.
Thea’s fingers tightened around her reticule as her thoughts churned, but she forced out the word, “Yes.”
Delight broke over his features so quickly, so unguarded, that guilt wrapped its sharp fingers around Thea’s heart. She did not wish to raise his expectations, but then, that was the nature of courting, wasn’t it? Whether or not she believed her feelings would alter, one could not know if one did not give it the opportunity.
It was time to let reason guide her steps.
With a few quick words, the plans were set, and he tipped his hat, his expression alight with satisfaction, as he started down the lane. The mist caught at the edge of his coat as he went, swallowing him little by little until only the echo of his cheerful footsteps remained.
Thea’s heart gave a muted protest, but she forced it down and turned toward The End House, arriving at the door and knocking before she knew what to say. Yet when Mrs. Brinn appeared in the doorway with baby Jennie on her hip, Thea didn’t bother mincing words.
“Would you teach me to lay a fire?”
Chapter 32
Mrs. Brinn’s brows rose until they reached her hairline, and the pair stood there, staring at one another for a long moment before she stepped aside and ushered Thea in.
“I’ll pour us a cup of tea,” said Mrs. Brinn, and before Thea could protest, the woman bustled to the hearth, setting baby Jennie in a cradle beside it. “You sit yourself down by the fire, Miss Keats. You are chilled through.”
Thea hesitated, desperate to explain what had driven her here in such a state, but Mrs. Brinn waved off her attempt.
“Sit,” she ordered, with a tone that left no room for argument, and Thea obeyed, perching on the small chair closest to the fire as the other woman fetched the kettle from where it hung over the coals.
The cottage was small and close, the kind of space where the hearth truly was the center of the home. Smoke-stained beams crossed low overhead, and the scent of wood and earth lingered in the air, softened by the herbal scent of the plants drying from hooks in the ceiling. A single window let in the dim, gray light, and beneath it stood a sturdy table scarred by years of chopping and kneading, surrounded by a few scuffed and well-worn chairsthat were well-loved, oft-repaired, and had seen many Brinns before this set.
Shelves lined the walls, holding a few bits of crockery and jars along with the odd keepsake. Everything bore the mark of a careful hand: neatly folded linens, kindling stacked in even piles, brightly-colored wildflowers displayed on the rough-hewn mantlepiece. There was little enough to the room, yet it felt lived-in, solid, the warmth of the fire reaching even the corners where the mist had crept in through the door.
