Page 24 of Engaging Sir Isaac

But that was in the past. The day was fine and golden. She rode in the carriage of an earl. Sarah hummed a simple, reassuring tune.

In a very short time, Millie could restore her family’s honor and make everyone forget all about what Emmeline had done, and what Lord Carning had tried to do.

* * *

The night had passed horrifically. No other word came to mind when Isaac attempted to understand what had gone wrong, why his dreams had been littered with the gasps and moans of the dying soldiers. He had taken something for sleep, at the advice of the apothecary, and sleep had come, but with more vivid nightmares than he had experienced in months.

So he found himself out walking most of the day, ignoring his responsibilities, and trying to fill his mind with light rather than the darkness of his memories.

He trudged about his lands, counting trees, inspecting the location for the proposed dam to keep his tenants’ farms from flooding, and then he’d made for the beaches of Inglewood. His property did not border the sea anywhere, but it was an easy thing to cross into Silas’s estate. He wandered for a time beneath the birch trees, reflecting on the happy afternoons of his childhood.

The shadows withdrew with each passing hour he spent away from the emptiness of his home.

Though he disdained the company of others, Isaac equally hated being alone. Before the war, social gatherings had filled him with energy, and he had looked forward to every opportunity to be among friends and neighbors.

But of late he wished to keep out of sight. People looked at him, expecting him to be as before. More than his arm had gone missing in battle, though. He had lost the desire to laugh at the oddities of life. He did not care for vapid conversation, for insignificant topics, for doing nothing, and being proud of an indolent state.

Isaac settled upon a large rock overlooking the beach. The rock marked the beginning of the earl’s gardens, sitting beside the path that led up the hill and into the manicured hedges and flowerbeds where Esther spent many a morning painting. With his back to his friend’s house, Isaac breathed deeply of the sea air. The waves rolled gently up to the beach, then tucked themselves back again. They were a comforting sight, their soft roars soothing.

Not at all like his nightmares.

Perhaps he ought to sleep on the beach one night and see if it cured him better than the apothecary’s powders.

There was little of late to provide him joy in his life. Isaac needed to take a greater swath of the darkness out of his soul, cast more of it away. There was purpose in making his estate financially stable once again, and Silas had helped with many ideas that would see Isaac successful in that pursuit. But there must be more. Must be something he could do that would fill the shadows of his heart with life and the will to move forward again.

A thought came to him—the memory of Miss Wedgewood’s laughter. It had surprised him, when she had laughed the day before, as though her heart knew the happiness his lacked. Yet she’d admitted, quite freely, that her circumstances were not ideal.

It was a shame, really. A woman with such intelligence, with that endearing set of dimples, trapped with a spiteful Lady Olivia. It still pained him that he had stolen her enjoyment of the Barnes’ dinner party with a few ill-conceived words. He used to speak so well. Used to guard his tongue. Of late, he said whatever thought came into his head, almost without realizing it.

Thinking on Miss Wedgewood would not get him anywhere that afternoon. He needed to help himself first. But where might he find something—someone—that brought a sense of belonging?

When the answer came, Isaac allowed himself a smile. Though he did not wish to discuss business with Silas, or have Essie fuss over him, there was a member of his family he knew would lift his spirits. His nephew, Little Isaac. And Essie had said the nursery door was always open to Isaac for visits.

Why not pay a call on the baby? Some might think him daft, wishing as he did to see an infant that was not his own, but the title of uncle far outpaced that of baronet in his favor. His small nephew was also his godson, and the infant had no expectations of Isaac except that he make amusing faces on occasion. Really, it was perfect. A baby’s smiles had a magical ability to cheer up anyone.

Isaac walked through the gardens, making his way to one of the rear doors of Inglewood Keep.

Laughter in the garden drew his attention away from his purpose. Familiar laughter.

Miss Millicent Wedgewood. Isaac pivoted to face the direction where the sound of merriment had originated. What was she doing at Inglewood? Again?

Esther had a soft heart. Her adoption of a lonely soul should not surprise him.

If his sister lingered in the gardens with Miss Wedgewood then Isaac needed to stop and say hello. It would not do to enter his nephew’s domain without at least greeting one of the lad’s parents.

Making his way through the hedges, Isaac went to the fountain at the center of the more ornamental gardens. Another bright laugh confirmed that he had taken the correct path. Rounding the last of the flowering shrubs, Isaac stopped abruptly. He hadn’t fully expected the scene before him.

Miss Wedgewood sat upon the ground, knees angled so that his nephew could be propped against them in a reclined position. A thin blanket was all that was between the two of them and the soft grasses surrounding the fountain. The baby held the woman’s fingers in his fists, swinging them about and grinning toothlessly at his captive.

Esther was nowhere in sight. Had she so much trust in the near stranger already, to leave her husband’s heir in the woman’s care? Not that Isaac suspected the woman to have any nefarious purpose in regard to the baby, but—

She looked up at him and her posture stiffened with surprise. But the startled look faded into a welcoming smile. “Sir Isaac. Your nephew and I were just speaking of you.” She wore a gown of a vivid purplish color that brought springtime to mind, with a bonnet upon her head and a shawl lying upon the ground next to her. The woman appeared quite at her ease in the countess’s gardens.

“That explains the laughter.” Where the quip came from, he could not say, but he was rewarded for it. Miss Wedgewood laughed again, softer this time, and turned her attention back to his nephew.

“Do you hear that, little one? Your uncle thinks we are laughing at him.” She slanted her eyes toward him and lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “We must not tell him the truth.” The baby cooed and waved his tiny fists, still holding tightly to Millie’s fingers.

Millie. The shortened version of her name suited her better than the mouthful of her given name, especially when she made such a pretty picture with an infant under her care. Millicent Wedgewood sounded like a Shakespearian villainess. The name was far too weighty to settle upon someone of her delicate stature, too.