Chapter Nineteen
The mid-May sunbeat down on the lawns of Munro Park, which were covered with a patchwork of picnic blankets and ambulating couples. The Trentons had been one of the first to arrive and were seated under the shade of a large, leafy oak, where James amused young Clarence and Charlotte cradled little Jane upon her lap. William, however, stood on high alert, waiting.
When were the Sinclairs going to get here? He had finally worked up the courage to declare himself to Miss Lockhart, but it was gradually draining away as the hour drew to an end with none of her party in sight. Soon the families would eat their packed lunches, and then the games would begin. It would be impossible to speak to her with any modicum of privacy when everyone was seated at their baskets and watching. And the two of them would be constantly interrupted to be drawn into the games if they should wait that long to talk. Now—with children running about and parents keeping a sharp eye on their antics—was the perfect opportunity for a private conversation in public.
The last ounce of William’s determination was fading fast when he recognized the particular figure of Miss Lockhart approaching, her pale, blonde hair peeking from her straw bonnet, one of the Sinclair children holding her hand.
William rushed toward them. He did not care if he seemed eager. Let her see with what joy he welcomed her arrival!
Miss Lockhart certainly seemed startled by his sudden appearance. That was to be expected. But her features did not relax into a calmer state. She appeared uncomfortable in his presence, nodding her acknowledgement of him without a smile, her eyes diverting from his as she steered past him to follow Mr. Sinclair to an open area on the lawn.
William was completely put off his stride. Something must have happened. It was likely the reason they had been late in arriving. He shook himself mentally. Miss Lockhart was simply distracted. She would settle, and he would offer to show her the tadpoles in the stream nearby. It was within sight of everyone yet distant enough to manage a low-voiced conversation without being overheard. He had specially come early to find something of interest to her. It would provide a good reason to call her away. But William also wanted to show her that he acknowledged the things that meant the most to her. He was not going to give her an excuse to reject him this time.
William hovered uncertainly, watching as the Sinclairs laid out their picnic. Then—to his immense frustration—they gathered their children up to play by the stream. Well,thatwasn’t helpful! How was he to speak to Miss Lockhart alone?
The young lady, however, remained seated upon the checkered blanket. She did not join her family with a net and a jar. Nor did she have sketching paper with her. Instead, she sat, unmoving and quiet. Her shoulders stooped as if carrying a great burden. Her eyes were dull and unfocused.
All at once, they flicked up to him. She stared directly at him. No warm, inviting smile to coax him over. But the suggestion was there nonetheless.Come here, her focused gaze said.I am waiting.
No longer sure of himself, William stepped around the other picnickers until he stood before Miss Lockhart with the nervous apprehension of a boy outside the headmaster’s door.
“Mr. Cole,” she said blandly, “won’t you be seated?” She gestured toward the opposite end of the broad rug, far apart enough for propriety, yet close enough to talk.
He did as bidden. “Are you well, Miss Lockhart?” he asked, though it was clear she was not. “You do not seem yourself today.”
“Indeed, Mr. Cole,” she replied, “I am very much myself. The question of the hour is whetheryouare, in fact,yourself.”
William blinked uncomprehendingly. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that it appears I have only come to know a very small aspect of your character. And I wonder whether the rest is quite what I’ve been told it is. Perhaps you would be so kind as to assist me in solving this unpleasant mystery.”
William sat down quite suddenly, all thoughts of romantic declarations thoroughly quashed. He had not the faintest notion what, exactly, she was thinking, but he had a terrible idea why she was thinking something troubling at all. She had been to the Howell estate to see Miss Kinsey. Viscount and Viscountess Howell were the only people in Munro with any knowledge about him that he feared having known. His stomach clenched. Was it possible they would share such a distressing secret with her? And why would they have? To warn her off? Might he not even have friends? Would he be punished into eternity for his wrongs of the past?
“I see you do not protest,” said Miss Lockhart. “That is a good start. Let us proceed forthwith, then, for our time to talk is in short supply.” She glanced at the stream. The Sinclair children splashed happily under their parents’ supervision. For now. She turned back to William and pinned him with her stern gaze. “Tell me about Lady Howell,” she demanded. “Why are you no longer friends?”
A fist of dread tightened within William’s chest. She knew. She knew! Oh, how she must abhor him! There was no chancefor him now. All was lost. She would forever regard him with repugnance.
Even worse, he deserved it. What did it help if he was trying to be a better man when the past could not be eradicated? He had done great harm not that many months ago. How could he hope for Miss Lockhart’s understanding?
And yet… she had not shunned him. Here he was, sitting with her at her invitation. What did she need from him? What could he offer that would heal this wound between them?
She had asked for the truth. But when she had it, what would she do? Would confirmation of her new knowledge cause Miss Lockhart to denounce him more fully? Or could she accept that his previous mistakes did not reflect who he was trying to become?
There was nothing for it but to bare his soul to her. It was not the secret that he had hoped to share—that he loved her, cherished her idiosyncrasies, desired the touch of her skin. Instead, he must speak of jealousy, arrogance, and deceit. William hung his head.
“I am ashamed to speak of it,” he began. “I do not recognize the man who made the choices I am guilty of. Yet I claim responsibility for all of it.”
Did he imagine it, or did Miss Lockhart’s eyes soften slightly?
“I fancied myself in love with her… with Miss Trenton, for that was her name before marriage.”
“Were you then not in love?”
Was there a note of hopefulness in her tone?
“I think…” William hesitated. “I believe I was in love with the idea of being in love. Miss Trenton and I both enjoyed conversation of great wit. She laughed with me, confided in me, in a way she did not do with her betrothed. He’d deeply wounded her feelings more than once within a matter of days. It did not seem a good match for her, whereas…”
“Whereas you thought you were?” Miss Lockhart asked, a touch of insecurity at the edge of her voice.
