Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Page 6

  The following day, Rose was tidying the kitchen after they’d had their morning tea when, through the window over the sink, she saw Glendower walking around the outside of the house.

  He wasn’t simply strolling; he held a notebook in one hand and was halting every now and then, eyes narrowing, to study the house itself.

  Curious, she watched him. After one such instance of close scrutiny, he pulled a pencil from the pocket of his jacket, raised the notebook, and scribbled something.

  He was wearing breeches and riding boots, a plain linen shirt, a neat but simply knotted cravat, with a hacking jacket over all; she had assumed he’d intended to go riding again, but no. As she watched, the light breeze ruffled his hair; the bright gold strands amid the light brown were what had caught her eye and drawn her to the window.

  Standing before the sink, cloth in hand, she vacillated. She wanted to know what he was doing, what he was planning; in her role as the children’s protector, she needed to know of anything that might pose a potential threat, that might bring the risk of exposure into their orbit. Against that, she was honest enough to admit, at least to herself, that her curiosity about Glendower was equally fed by a more unsettling, even disturbing, impulse.

  She’d never felt attracted to any gentleman before; mildly curious, perhaps, but not drawn like this.

  Drawn to venture closer, to discover whether the sensual thrill she felt at his touch was still there.

  She knew it was, would be; every time his fingers inadvertently brushed hers, she felt that addictive thrill to her marrow.

  But she didn’t know if he felt anything at all, and she couldn’t fault his behavior, not in the slightest degree; he’d made no move that even by the wildest stretch of anyone’s imagination could be construed as inappropriate, much less as any definite advance.

  He’d given her no reason to believe he wanted her, desired her, that he was any threat to her at all.

  Was it wrong of her to want to . . . test him?

  Was it perverse of her to want to learn more of him, the man, and so risk all the benefits his presence had brought them? Not just to her, but to the children, too?

  Last night, after dinner when the children had gone upstairs, he’d spoken to her about Homer and had offered to find suitable books from his library to help satisfy Homer’s burgeoning need for knowledge—a need she, herself, could not sate. Glendower had cast the act as a very little thing, something he could easily and painlessly do, but it had already made a difference to Homer and, therefore, to her. The look on Homer’s face when, after breakfast this morning, Glendower had taken him into the library, piled his arms with leather-bound tomes, then dispatched him to the dining room, there to sit and read at the big table Glendower no longer used, had been beyond revealing.

  Homer had been in alt.

  She had been beyond grateful, beyond relieved, but when she’d taken Glendower’s morning tea tray to him in the library and had tried to offer her thanks, he’d dismissed his part as insignificant, nothing worthy of further consideration.

  He’d made no attempt to capitalize on her gratitude, not in any way. . . .

  Rose shifted to keep him in sight as he moved further along the back of the house. Again he stopped, stared, then made a note in his book. She frowned. “What the devil is he doing?”

  Tossing the cloth on the bench, she smoothed her hands down her skirts, then passed her palms over her hair, confirming that her chignon was still neat. Then, grabbing her shawl from the back of her chair, she headed for the back door.

  Sunshine greeted her as she emerged onto the step, but the light breeze was still cool. Spring was only gradually stealing in and hadn’t yet properly arrived. Swinging her shawl about her shoulders, she stepped down to the narrow paved path that led to the stables, but she immediately left the path for the coarse grass and lengthened her stride in pursuit of her quarry, now nearing the far corner of the house.

  He glanced at her as she neared, but then went back to writing his latest note.

  Halting a few feet away, she faced the house and studied the façade, trying to see what had caught his attention.

  As if reading her mind, he murmured, still scribbling, “The guttering. It needs clearing. If you look closely, there’s grass growing up there.”

  Raising a hand, she shaded her eyes, looked, and saw that he was right. She glanced at him. “Is that what you’re listing?”

  He nodded. Shutting the book, he looked at the house again. “All the little things that need doing.”

  Closing his hand about the silver head of the cane he’d left resting against his thigh, he continued his slow progress around the house, examining each window, each piece of spouting, and all else of a structural nature.

  Rose trailed after him.

  When he stopped to check the paint on a windowsill, she said, “There’s a local handyman we—the Gattings and I—have used over the years. He’s reasonable and reliable. If you wish, once you have your list, I could get him in.”

  To her surprise, Glendower shook his head. “No.” Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I’ll do the work myself.”

  Rose blinked. She thought of how high the guttering was, thought of how stiffly he moved . . . wondered why a gentleman might wish to do such work himself. . . .

  He halted again, this time to assess the sturdiness of a piece of latticework anchored to the side of the house.

  Rose halted a few feet away. Her gaze on his face, she bit her lip, wondering how to phrase the question that had leapt to her mind.

  Stepping back from the lattice, balancing his cane against his leg, he drew out his notebook and pencil.

  She watched him open the book and saw his lips curve, distinctly wryly. “No,” he said, his gaze on the page and the words he was writing, “I have plenty of money.” He paused, then, as if sensing that more explanation was required, added, “I need the exercise or my muscles will atrophy—grow weak again. I need to keep using them, in lots of different ways.”

  She was intrigued, yet . . . “There’s exercise, and then there’s hard work.”

  He chuckled and put away his notebook. “Indeed.” He sounded genuinely amused, not offended in the least by what another employer might have viewed as a temerity.

  Reassured, Rose continued to keep pace with him as he walked further, rounding the next corner to examine the front of the house. She waited, hoping . . .

  Halting to squint up at the front façade, he said, “The monastery was a Benedictine house—it was the done thing for everyone, including any laity within the walls, to contribute to the house’s maintenance and repair, each according to their talents.” He glanced briefly at her, long enough for her to glimpse the self-deprecation in his eyes. “When I first arrived there, I had no useful talents, not in that sense. But there were many brothers who did, and they consented to teach me. Subsequently, I discovered that I had an unexpected aptitude for . . . I suppose one could say crafting and repairing things. Working with my hands to make physical things work.”

  They strolled on, and, after a moment, he continued, “I know it’s not a customary occupation for a gentleman, but I derive great satisfaction from it—from putting things right and making them work.”

  Thomas heard the words, his first attempt at explaining to anyone his liking for such activities, and realized the connection, the essential similarity between his habitual occupation through the morning—investing and managing funds to create money to put things right—and what had come to be his preferred means of filling his afternoons. Two sides of the same coin, one largely cerebral, the other solidly physical.

  Halting ten yards away from the house, in line with the front door, he turned to consider his housekeeper. “So,” he concluded, meeting her soft brown eyes, “I’ll do the necessary repairs myself.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, then inclined her head. Halting, too, she glanced at the house. “Do you have any thoughts as to the order in which you’ll tack
le the tasks?”

  He shifted to face the house; they were standing close, only a foot between them. “The repainting should wait until the weather improves, so at the moment that goes to the bottom of the list.”

  Busy studying the façade, she hadn’t seen him move. As she, too, swung to squarely face the house, her shoulder brushed his.

  Sparks flared. That’s what it felt like. He could all but sense their mutual attraction crackling in the air.

  His muscles, more susceptible than most men’s through habitually being tensed, trembled. He gripped the head of his cane tightly, his knuckles paling as he fought the impulse to react, as he ruthlessly quashed the instinctive urge to pursue that attraction. To pursue her.

  No good could come of that.

  From the rigidity that had gripped her, from the fact that she’d stopped breathing, he knew she was engaged in a similar battle, that she, too, felt the power of that flaring connection.

  Then, surreptitiously, she drew in a shallow, somewhat shaky breath, and shifted so that her shoulder no longer touched his. “Well, then.” Her voice was slightly breathless; she raised her chin a notch higher and with greater determination stated, “I’ll leave you to it.”

  Inclining her head, without meeting his eyes, she turned and walked slowly back around the house.

  He watched her go and had to wonder if, despite both their best efforts, this was one battle that might prove a lost cause.

  After several moments of thinking further along those lines, he returned his gaze to the house.

  If she could deny what was growing between them, could continue to suppress her reaction to him, then, clearly, he could, and should, and would do the same.

  At the end of the first week after the return of Mr. Thomas Glendower to Breage Manor, Rose slipped into her chair at the dinner table and listened to the conversation already raging between Glendower—Thomas, as both the children had taken to calling him—and Homer regarding the correct way to interpret someone’s theory about the moon orbiting the earth.

  Pippin was busy eating, but between mouthfuls she was also listening, although Rose would have wagered it was the animation displayed by both Homer and Thomas—Glendower—that was holding Pippin’s interest.

  Rose looked down at her soup plate, took her first mouthful, then looked again down the table.

  There he sat, large as life—her employer, a male who, regardless of his injuries, his obvious infirmities, regardless of his disfiguring scars, still managed to seize and hold her attention and interest like some emotional lodestone—and yet she felt . . . settled. Calm, assured, even serene, her instincts convinced beyond question that the situation was . . . good.

  His presence in their household felt . . . simply right.

  He’d proved to be a creature of habit and had settled into a daily routine. After breakfasting with them—and he’d yet to be late down, and most often beat the children downstairs—he would shut himself in his library and work through the morning. She usually found him still there, analyzing figures and reading news sheets, when she took him his morning tea. Eventually emerging, he’d taken in recent days to spending half an hour or so with Homer in the dining room, from which both would appear when she rang the bell for luncheon.

  After helping her clear the table, he would go outside, either to ride or to work on whichever of the small projects about the house was next on his list. While such actions demonstrated a certain arrogance in that he clearly did not care what others thought of him, for her part she considered his stance commendable, and one she supported without reservation.

  Homer had, of course, noticed; since Glendower’s arrival, Homer had revised his view of doing chores, like mucking out the stable, previously a matter of argument, and apparently now deemed all such activities to be perfectly acceptable, acceptably manly, occupations.

  Initially, Pippin, as was her wont, had simply listened or, with her doll in her arms, had silently trailed after Glendower to watch him work around the house. Rose had expected him to ignore the little girl, not in any dismissive way but simply because she was a girl, but no. Over the last days, Pippin had come in full of tales of how Thomas had let her hold his nails, or pass him his hammer, of how she had helped him complete whatever task he’d been working on.

  Rose had to own to surprise on that score . . . and also at the fact that, despite the attraction that, like lightning, seemed to streak down her nerves whenever she and Thomas passed close to each other—an affliction she was increasingly suspicious he had guessed she was prey to—he and she had continued to manage to deal with each other without incident of any sort. At least, no incident they couldn’t both ignore, or, at the very least, pretend hadn’t happened.

  She wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about that, but . . . all in all, after his first week with them, she was feeling unexpectedly content.

  She could even admit that she was glad he had joined them.

  At the other end of the table, Thomas, too, was content with his first week’s achievements. His days were settling into a rhythm of financial work, intellectual instruction, and physical labor that suited him well. Coming to the manor, and remaining even after he’d discovered his unexpected new caretakers, had been the right thing to do. He could remain here in comfort and in peace while waiting for Fate to summon him to perform his final penance. If somewhat deeper in his blackened soul lay a certain impatience over his ultimate task, an impatience to learn of it, accomplish it, and find . . . whatever lay beyond, somewhat to his surprise, the gentle distractions of the moment, of the house, the children, and the alluring Mrs. Sheridan, appeared to have sufficient weight to drown it, to suppress it.

  Here, now, he was conscious only of a day well spent and a soothing, soporific sense of calm.

  Pippin skipped around the table removing the empty soup plates. Mrs. Sheridan handed out the dinner plates, then brought a large casserole to the table.

  Resuming her seat, she gestured for him to serve himself; it was one of those instants when he wished he could argue but accepted that she would prefer he take the path of least resistance. His instincts insisted that she—a lady no matter her standing—should be served first, but . . . to keep her peace, he served himself, then passed the spoon to Homer.

  The meat was delicious; he’d made sure to increase not just the amount delivered but also the quality of the cuts. Mrs. Sheridan had, of course, noticed, but she had made no comment, simply adjusting her dishes to suit the better ingredients.

  As a pleasant silence, broken only by the chink of cutlery on china and a murmured request from Pippin for Homer to pass the bread basket, enfolded the table, Thomas flicked a glance up the board and met Mrs. Sheridan’s fine brown eyes, which had already been on him.

  Their gazes held for a second too long, a fraction of a heartbeat beyond the excusable, then they both looked down at their plates.

  Thomas resisted the urge to shift in his chair; she would notice, and . . . no. That was the only thorn to the rose of his days there—the attraction that, unrelieved and unsated, was building, building. It was, he knew, the sort of attraction that would not readily subside, not while they remained under the same roof, in such close proximity.

  However, thus far, they’d both succeeded in suppressing any outburst, in keeping a lid on the pot that was slowly, steadily, inevitably, coming to the boil.

  His hope was that, before it did, Fate would send for him.

  The thought focused him again on the other three occupants of the table. He glanced at Homer, then at Pippin. He would only be in their lives for a short time, theirs and their mother’s, and although he’d weighed the matter at some length, with every passing day he felt increasingly certain that his decision to interact with them and give them whatever support, whatever help, he could over the time he was with them was the right path to take.

  Teaching Homer, and Pippin, too, what he could, and meanwhile living as normally as he could—as he needed to live—while
avoiding setting what was fermenting between him and their mother alight . . .

  His plate empty, his stomach comfortably full, he leaned back in his chair and looked down the table. “A very nice dinner, Mrs. Sheridan. My compliments to the cook.”

  She laughed, a spontaneous sound of pleasure, and while he managed to maintain an expression of nonchalant ease, something in him stilled.

  When, after sharing a smile with the children, she shifted her gaze to him, he inclined his head, forcing himself to let his lips curve in gentle acknowledgment, making sure his lids and lashes veiled the leaping hunger in his eyes.

  Chapter

  3

  Days passed, then weeks. A month after he arrived at the manor, Thomas sat in the library, his financial work for the day not yet commenced; his admiral’s chair swiveled so his back was to his desk, to the letters and news sheets waiting piled upon it, he stared broodingly out of the window.

  The impatience in his soul remained, yet, even now, he felt a measure of calm, the soothing influence of the simple pleasures he was exposed to every day. Each and every day that he spent at the manor, an accepted part of the small household.

  He wasn’t sure he was supposed to be enjoying himself quite so much. So . . . effortlessly.

  The man he once had been would have listened to his welling impatience, would have surrendered to it and found some way to press ahead; the man he’d once been would have had no hesitation in going forth and forcing the world to his bidding—forcing even Fate to his self-determined timetable.

  Yet the man he now was had learned something of humility, had accepted that he was not the person about whom his world revolved. His destiny would, without doubt, be low on Fate’s—or God’s—list of matters to be settled.

  She—or he—would get to him in due course.

  Patience. That, too, seemed to be a virtue he needed to acquire.

  Perhaps that was the lesson of this time.

  He weighed that conclusion; in some ways it was self-serving, yet he could see no viable argument against it. He had to wait for Fate’s summons, and Breage Manor, he was increasingly certain, was the place in which he was supposed to bide his time. Patching up the manor so Mrs. Sheridan and her children would be safe and secure once he left. Teaching Homer, and broadening Pippin’s horizons as well.